


A Drop of Love

by moz17



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Because with Season 3 this is basically unintentionally an AU, F/M, M/M, written pre-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:14:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: "A drop of love can bring an ocean of tears" - Jewish proverb.Robert Childan stumbles upon something of Frank's and so begins their attempt to understand one another, and perhaps even become closer to one another.





	1. Chapter 1

Not many things calmed or relaxed Robert Childan, but the main occupation which untensed his shoulders and unjangled his nerves was tidying his shop, tidying his apartment, and then sitting with a cup of tea, surveying the pleasing lines and surfaces of his world set to rights. 

Edward McCarthy and Frank Frink had no place in this strictly ordered domain.

And yet, there they unavoidably were, taking up far too much space, dominating this retreat where previously objects had held rule. He remembered the excitement of first acquiring the premises, and how he had spent each day working without stopping, bending the dark, filthy rooms to his will and instilling them with his own vision. He knew the exact position of each item in his shop, and after customers left he either had to rush to select another suitable article to fill the gap left by the purchase which had just been made, or he had to rearrange the object which had been considered and examined but ultimately hadn't been bought. Robert could instantly tell if something was out of place, if even only by a millimetre. He was quite aware of the impression his shop made on potential customers, how they reacted to its austere character. Even if these people were somewhat skeptical of his wares and did not buy anything they gave these pieces the respect they were due, and Robert knew this feeling was imparted to them from his own attitude and presence, perfectly aligned with his rooms. 

And yet, here he was forced to share this space with two yobs who had no respect at all for his profession, his objects, or for himself. It needled him, and reminded him too much of how his schoolmates found his liking for cleanliness and neatness to be prim and fussy, and more than enough reason to keep him outside of their games and gangs. If they had asked he wouldn't have joined in anyway, he'd argue to himself as an eight year old, their antics would only be too messy. A few decades later he knew enough to understand this had been self-defence on his part, although a pinch of the sentiment was nonetheless still there. Sometimes he had consciously doubled down on this image, adopting an exaggerated form of it in a spiteful rebuttal to their mockery, an attempt to be defiant and proclaim "You will not change me"; though by over-performing his own self, were they not already altering him? This had not occurred to his young mind at the time, only in retrospect. However, there had certainly been periods, and continued to be throughout his teenage years and adulthood, to the present day- where this aspect of him did seem to take over in response to something, something vague, and which he could not control. Robert could still remember a kindly teacher one time suggesting he could hand up his finished work without having to copy it out again, repeatedly, it didn't matter if there was a smudge or two. There had been hours deep at night where he had found himself redusting cases and shelves that did not need this treatment, yet these actions seemed to soothe him when alarms were droning and threat hung in the air day after day, and the streets were unnaturally empty. He would remember his mother performing tasks not dissimilar to him, except that she did indeed have a household to run, and people dependent on her. She had fiercely worked to create an atmosphere resembling that of any average family home, pre-war, pre-crisis, pre-regime. He knew that he took after his mother in this aspect, and many others. Well, he'd no choice really, as there had been no other parental figure to take as his example. In recent times when even reorganising his shop and apartment didn't help he had taken to smoking marijuana; alcohol did not hold such a great appeal for him. Although there were now two presences in his flat who would drive him to such desperate measures if he wasn't careful. 

Before, Robert had been able to close his shop door, close his apartment door, and retreat from the all-too-ugly world outside. Now even this was no longer allowed to him, with his unwished for house guests. However, no house guests would have ever taken the liberty to behave in such a manner as they did. If it had only been Edward he would have managed, just about. Edward was unintentionally messy, a young man who had never lived in his own place or shared a living space with a girlfriend. It wasn't important to him but he could grasp that it might be for another person. The slight problem was that what Edward understood as messy was far removed from Robert's definition. The younger man was so good-natured about it though it was infuriating. "Oh, sorry Bob, I keep forgetting you don't like that", he would respond to witnessing Robert jamming a coaster under his coffee mug and wiping away the brown ring from the surface for the umpteenth time. He would glare and that would also go right past Edward, his repeated trespasses against Robert's apartment forgotten already. He was neat where it was important to him- his work tools were spotless and carefully ordered in a manner Robert himself could admire. 

Mister Frank Frink, however, was a completely different case. It was as if Frank simply did not perceive those around him if he didn't wish to, and was highly selective in whom he bestowed his limited supply of decentness upon. He would crash in through the shop and apartment, leaving a trail of chaos behind him, to add to the trail of chaos he had brought into their lives, and namely to Robert's life, before promptly up and leaving to attend to some other business which would only ever spell trouble for him and all those who had the misfortune to be associated with him. 

This particular evening, even just looking at the area Frank had claimed for himself (without prior consultation with Robert) was enough to make him fume. Taking over this space hadn't even been enough for the man; his papers, materials, tools, pens, everything was strewn over the large work desk, and continued to pour over onto surrounding surfaces. Robert could not conceive how it was possible to create such wonderful art as Frank was capable of under these conditions. There was no discernible system to the riot of sheer stuff on the work top. How Frank could lay his hands on anything or remember where a sketch was placed remained a mystery to Robert. Unfinished designs on scraps of torn paper littered the floor, reference books for their forgeries were piled haphazardly on a nearby armchair. Robert couldn't look at this any longer, he just could not take it. He grabbed at each bit of paper on the ground and flung them onto the desk, noting to himself that it made no difference to its current appearance. He hefted the books off the armchair, desperate to attempt to retain something at least for himself, to try and contain Mister Frink's mess for fear it would spread out and infect them all, take over the apartment. He knew on some level it was irrational to fear being edged out of his own home, and yet, with the way the world was going perhaps he was justified in being frightened of his place in it becoming ever smaller and ever more precarious. He was furthermore fully aware that his actions would have absolutely no effect whatsoever; it was a meaningless gesture and attempt to impose his will on the situation and have things return to the way they had never really ever been. At least before his life had been predictable, there were no highs but also no desperate lows. He could no longer clearly recall how his life had been before, it all seemed as one unending day, little to distinguish it. Robert highly doubted he would reach a point in his life where he would be able to return to such a time- if he survived, of course. 

As he moved the books, getting at least some small satisfaction from the resounding 'thud' they made as he shunted them on top of Frank's work desk (wait, HIS work desk, it didn't belong to Mister Frink), a small volume fell to the floor. Robert stooped to pick it up and glimpsed the contents of its pages. He began to examine it more closely. It was leather-bound, old, its cover soft and worn to the touch, its spine creased countless times. The pages were gilt-edged, dulled through age. It was the size of Robert's hand and instinctively he held the book cradled between his palms. The lettering was foreign, not simply a different language but a script he could not make head nor tail of. The strokes were fatly inked, full of short vertical marks accompanied by slanting lines, facing to the left or right. Robert couldn't even ascertain if he was holding the book the right way up, let alone hazard a guess at the system for reading it; up or down, from left to right or right to left?  
He felt strange holding this book, not only at the thought as to what it could contain but also because he had a suspicion he had unintentionally stumbled onto something extremely private and not intended for his eyes at all. He considered how to replace the book without alerting Frank to the fact that he had picked it up. For though this work area spoke of utter chaos Robert knew somehow that Frank would be more attuned to the whereabouts of this particular text. 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

Before Robert could react Frank had already yanked the book out of his hands, and now they stood facing one another; Robert could admit freely that he was apprehensive, if not downright frightened, he knew what Frank could do and how unpredictable he could also be. Christ, where had he come out of? He hadn't even heard him enter the apartment. 

"You're just going to rummage through my personal belongings and then not even say anything?" 

Robert cast around for something to say, distracted by the nervous tension radiating from every inch of Frank's body. "I...It...It's beautiful. I apologise. I was moving your books, it fell on the floor, and I picked it up, and it's beautiful, I couldn't help looking at it." 

Clearly Frank had not been prepared for this answer, and he remained silent, but the expression on his face was slowly altering. Robert could not help but think how Frank's eyes had never matched his demeanour, his frame; his voice and gestures, his actions were so jagged and rough, often violent. He was a man on the edge, anyone could see that, and Robert found himself wondering if perhaps he had met Frank at the wrong time in his life? For his eyes did not reflect this attitude, they appeared rather distant, as if they were gazing inward and were disappointed at what they found there, or were turned back to some other happier time, a time he could not return to, a time before he had to adopt this harsh way of being. Yet, understanding that there was some deep conflict at work within Frank Frink did not endear the man to him- he was still an asshole to him most of the time, and Robert blamed him for everything. He wouldn't be able to continue to blame him for the turn his life had taken if he began to sympathise with him too much. There must have been something kind and likable in Frank previously to have inspired the loyal affections of Edward, and he did wonder what that Frank had been like to be around. Perhaps he would have been an easier house guest. 

Those eyes were now trained on him. "You think it's beautiful?" 

"Since you sound so surprised by that, I am going to go out on a limb here, and assume this book could get us into great trouble if it were discovered here by the authorities?" 

"Absolutely."

"Great. Great. I don't know why I'm even surprised." Robert sighed. 

"But you just said that you thought it was beautiful?"

"Yes, I do but I do not wish to lose my life over it." 

Frank turned his gaze to the book in his hands. "Many already have." 

Robert's mind worked furiously, processing this. "It's something religious. A religious book. It's a Jewish text?" 

"Do you have a problem with Semites, Robert?" 

He was flustered. "No, I...I don't even know any really." 

"You're looking at one, as defined by law." 

"Mr. Frink, let me assure you that it is purely you yourself that I do not particularly like, I do not ascribe it to your Jewishness." 

He could see Frank's nostrils flaring in a slight wry huff of amusement. They remained facing one another, but Frank had now taken a step back and Robert hoped this indicated that the other man's temper had cooled somewhat. 

"I didn't have you pegged as someone harbouring religious sentiments." Robert ventured. 

"I don't. I never did." 

"Well, why this then?" He gestured at the book. 

Frank subjected him to his gaze again, as if he was checking that Robert was posing this question honestly, out of real interest. "I knew one side of my family was Jewish, making me partly Jewish, but it didn't mean very much to me, it was only something I hoped I could keep hidden. But then the Regime told me that they define me as a Semite, and then...they came for me. Attacked me and my family. If they attack me as a Jew, then I have to defend myself as a Jew. Whether I willingly identify with that label or not." 

Silence fell between them again. Robert cleared his throat, taken aback by Frank's candid answer. "May I ask what the book is?" 

Frank opened it, ran his finger down a page, and closed it again, still holding it, not putting it down. "It's a copy of the Kaddish, which is the prayer recited in memory of the dead. A neighbour who knew my family gave it to me." 

Robert knew of the terrible fate Frank's sister and her two children had suffered, but they had never directly addressed it. "I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mister Frink." 

For the second time that evening, Frank looked taken aback by Robert's response. Expressing sympathy was the most basic social requirement, and Robert found himself wondering, did Frank not believe he was capable of even that, simply because they didn't get on that well? That was an uncomfortable thought. 

"Could you read some of it, out loud?" I've never heard Hebrew spoken before." 

Frank's nervous tension seemed to set in again, and he shook his head forcefully. "No. No, no." 

"Oh, I...perhaps that's not respectful in the religion, or...?" 

"No, it's just, I can't. I mean, I can't read the language properly yet. I'm learning. Most of it still doesn't make sense to me." The words rushed out of his mouth and Robert was not altogether certain that this was the complete truth. "Anyway," Frank continued. "Why are you so interested? Why do you think it's beautiful? You're not Jewish." 

Robert realised Frank was not going to put the book down in his presence because he wished to hide it once again. This thought saddened him somehow. "No, I'm not Jewish, and I'm not religious in any way. However, I am a man of culture and taste," Frank huffed again, this time though the noise was closer to a snort. "And," Robert continued on undeterred, "And the religious tradition cannot be underestimated for its importance to culture, and its development." As an artist himself, he hoped Frank would understand what it was he was attempting to articulate. "Without religion, we cannot conceive of culture: patrons paid great sums of money to artists to create paintings for the glory of their Gods, architects were contracted to design grand houses of worship, the first printed book was a bible. Even when works of art set out to question God or to conceive of a culture where these grand narratives no longer exist, this was art prompted by the phenomenon of religion, in reaction against it. Your Kaddish comes from a tradition that stretches back thousands of years. There is beauty in such artifacts, not just as evidence of our ancestors, but because of its humanity, its meaning, its attempt to come to terms with being human and on this earth, and what that means, and to believe the human experience is worthy of capturing in the written word or in images. That book you hold, like the items in my shop- well, the unforged ones, anyway-possesses more value than any of the woeful trash the Reich churns out. Hitler," Robert bit out, "was an oik, who had no taste, and no understanding of culture. His paintings are pale, lifeless renditions. And Berlin under his grand re-imagining, assisted by that creep Speer, is a vulgar monstrosity. The Reich's art is always fated to fail because it tries to create in a vacuum, it likes to pretend it is above or outside of what came before, and mostly they seek simply to obliterate all that came before, and will wilfully refuse to entertain the thought something could possibly come after it." Robert beckoned to Frank, pulled a large art book from a hidden space in his parlour. He laid it open before Frank. "Look at these- these artworks are considered 'degenerate' by the Reich." 

Frank tucked his book into his inside jacket pocket and poured over the pages, and Robert could not help experiencing a sense of being complicit with the man in harbouring illegal art and texts. 

"One thing the Japanese do understand is tradition, acknowledging where you came from, and the beauty of ancient items, the beauty of age. They are allowed to keep that whilst also mining our own, by comparision, brief history." Robert eyed his rooms wearily. He closed the book and returned it to its hiding place- he was suddenly tired, having been too sharply reminded of the world he continually sought to keep at bay. 

"I agree with all of that, Robert." Frank had his head tilted slightly to the side, examining Robert, as if he was considering him in a new light. "However, there is another great driving force behind culture, and art." 

"Which is?" 

"Longing." With that, Frank sat down at the desk, cleared the books from it once more which had just been placed there by Robert, and pulled an unfinished design towards himself before setting to work.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a long time since Robert had shared a living space with anyone (How long had it been since he had shared his bed with someone, he wondered). He could list the drawbacks instantly, and without much prompting. But though he was loathe to admit, it also had its distinct advantages. The simple knowledge that there were two other people in the apartment with him was comforting. Between being indebted to the Yakuza and the quickly escalating threats of an outbreak of war and disaster, Robert was having trouble sleeping at night. Before when he was living alone his inability to sleep would compel him to get up, turn on the lights, and undertake pointless tasks, in the hope of banishing the tight feeling in his chest, or at least, that he could tire himself out so much that his body would get the upper hand over his mind and grant him a few hours respite. Now, even though he more often than not struggled to fall asleep still, at least the panicked feeling which weighed him down at night was greatly reduced by knowing that there was at least one other person in the apartment at any given time. He would listen out for the sounds of Edward wriggling around, settling himself, crinkling the newspaper, or lightly snoring, or pottering around the kitchen if he too couldn't sleep. Though Robert complained about Mr. McCarthy's tendency to talk without full stops or commas, he found something very sympathetic in his artless manner of addressing sentiments which most other grown men would be mortified to admit to. "Scary last night, wasn't it?" Edward would sometimes say in the aftermath of a night broken by sirens, shouts, and distant gunfire. "I couldn't sleep at all. Could you?" Robert would quietly make some sound to confirm that he hadn't slept well either. He had yet to grow to enjoy Edward's passion for holding forth on conspiracy theories, no matter how often Robert told him he was not interested in such things.

He was not certain if he would call Frank's presence in the apartment comforting in the same manner as Edward's, but Frank was not afraid to use a gun when necessary and to defend himself, and that was comforting on another level. There were many nights, however, when Frank simply was not there, and he could not be bothered to provide an explanation unless pressed to do so or if he deemed it necessary. Robert had jerked awake on several occasions due to Frank coming in late at night, making little effort to keep the noise down. Instead of going to bed himself after this, usually Frank would sit down at his work table and would continue to work on his current piece or draw new designs. In the quietness of the rooms late at night Robert would hear Frank scraping back his chair to sit down, could hear the scratch of pencil or charcoal on paper, or the light picking and chipping away at material. Robert would lie in the darkness of his bedroom and wonder if Frank slept even less than he did (Perhaps it was better that he currently did not share a bed with someone, Robert mused, his own wakefulness would just disturb his imaginary partner's sleep as well). He often thought about going out to him, to talk to him, or perhaps to sit nearby and observe the man at work. He had been recently experiencing a wish to talk with Frank again after their encounter a few days previous, but there was never enough time, or Edward was around or Robert's nerves were frayed and he took it out on the only two people around him, or Frank himself was in one of his moods where nothing could penetrate through to him.  
He would listen to the sounds of Frank at work, and he always fell into a restless sleep before Frank laid down his tools and went to bed. Or at least fell asleep, he should say, for often as not, Robert would come upon Frank in the morning, having fallen asleep at his work desk. Robert could not help but recognise how terrible Frank appeared these recent times. His clothes were creased, often stained, slept-in, and it was difficult for Robert to even bear witness to clothing on another person in such a state. His skin was not simply pale, it was grey and the circles under his eyes were deep and dark by sharp contrast, only serving to further emphasise his pallor. Even in sleep he did not look as if he was at rest; whatever demons followed him in his waking hours were clearly all too present with him as he slept. Slumped over his desk, his shoulders were hunched around him, every limb still taut and coiled, expecting something to befall him, and deep lines dug into his brow even in repose.  
On these mornings Robert increasingly found himself moving around his apartment with great care, not opening the curtains, and softly going about his daily tasks. When he had first shushed Edward, who had been obliviously scraping mugs and spoons around the kitchen, and then gestured at the sleeping form over the desk top, he had surprised both Edward and himself. Edward, after recovering from this display of concern from Robert, had then smiled slightly, which infuriated the other man. No, he was most certainly not about to become a fully paid up member of the Frank Frink fan club, however, he could sympathise with someone also struggling to sleep.

He took further care to remain out of Frank's way when he would initially wake from these nights at his desk; he was usually groggy and seemed very confused. One morning, as Robert had sipped his tea, Frank had raised his head from the desk, and Robert couldn't help but smirk as he caught sight of the other man.

"What?" Frank had muttered at him, feeling for his glasses along the table. He had fallen asleep on a charcoal drawing, and the left side of his face was lined in grey, ashy smudges.

"You have ash all over your face." Robert had pointed.

Frank had stiffened, and forcefully rubbed his hand down his face, staring at what came away on his fingers. "What do you mean I have ash on my face? Where did it come from?"

"Uh..." Robert was so thrown off by this reaction he hadn't even been able to gesture to the drawing on the desk.

"Where did it come from?" He rubbed at his face again, his hands shaking, and then he was gone from the room, and Robert had heard the sound of running water. It had taken him a moment to understand that in the confused state between sleep and awake, the associations with the word 'ash' had struck something deep in Frank's memory, obliterating the more prosaic connotations and meanings attached to the word.  
He had chanced looking at some of Frank's drawings when he wasn't in the apartment. There was no beauty to be found there, only a pure scream, a gaping wound that knew of no other way to articulate itself. Robert found himself thinking of these drawings as he lay in bed at night, and thinking of the image of Frank scrubbing at his face. There was nothing he could do, indeed, there was nothing he could do which would be accepted by the other man to help him or ease his distress. It was clear that Frank was continuing to isolate himself from those he had known previously, even as he continued to actively protect them. He was running headlong into the arms of the resistance, and not entirely for the right reasons, Robert suspected. Frank wasn't even as close to Edward in recent times, he had noticed. And though this might in many ways be positive for Edward, an opportunity for him, it was the opposite for Frank. It was as if Frank could not allow himself to look back and so had to keep pushing forward into ever more reckless behaviour. Robert sometimes wondered what would get Frank killed first, his association with the Yakuza, his role in the resistance, or would it be himself? Though many of Frank's actions were oriented towards the welfare of others, or in the memory of others, there was a hugely self-destructive streak in the man, and one that appeared to wish for the release of death. The thought, once lodged in his mind, refused to leave, and Robert began to find himself experiencing a sense of relief when Frank came in through the apartment door; he had got through another day, another night.

\-----------------------------

It was a warm night, and yet Robert kept his cover pulled tightly around himself, more for the feeling of being wrapped up inside something. Work had gone well today, he had been able to enjoy the transactions. The apartment was silent. Edward was long asleep, Frank had come in some time ago and had begun working on something at his desk, but he had fallen asleep too, Robert surmised from the lack of noise from that direction. Robert had given up on finding sleep himself any time soon. A short, sharp cry reached his ears, muffled though the wall. He sat up in bed, his duvet falling away from; he listened. Nothing further could be heard. He rose and moved softly towards his parlour. The lights were still on over Frank's desk; he sat there, his chest heaving as he gulped down lungfuls of air, his skin shone with a sickly sheen of sweat. He hadn't noticed Robert yet, and so he thought it best to alert the man to his presence before approaching him.

"Frank?" He called out, not too loudly but clearly.

Frank whipped his head around, still struggling to regain control of his breathing. When he saw that it was Robert, he dipped his head slightly.

Robert swallowed, feeling his throat click. "Bad dreams?"

Frank nodded, his eyes not meeting Robert's. He had no idea what he could offer Frank, and as he cast about for some inspiration to come to him he remembered what his own mother had always reverted to during bad moments. "Can I make you some tea?"

Frank snorted, and hoarsely replied. "Tea is not going to help at all."

"Well, no, the tea itself does not possess magical qualities." Robert couldn't keep the dry note out of his voice. "The aim is rather that the ritual of tea-taking is supposed to help, drinking a warm liquid, and being able to put your hands around the cup, something everyday."

"I think I prefer a cigarette." Frank muttered.

"Have one, but you're also getting tea."

Robert busied himself boiling the water and setting the cups together. He thought of all the times he had had tea with his mother, quiet moments snatched, and even then he had understood what such moments were- they were an attempt to ward off the unwelcome outside world. He could clearly recall the teacups they had used, their pattern, the accompanying teapot, the spoons, and tray. There had hardly ever been sweet things available, or affordable, to accompany their tea, but it had not mattered. Their tea ritual had been sacred, nothing short of a disaster would prevent it from taking place. That tea set was long gone, smashed, the pieces lost, and Robert had not yet been able to find another like it. His own set was charming enough but it lacked something (All the conversations he had had with his mother, her soft words, but not too soft, her contentedness in sitting with her son exchanging the details and events of the day). These days his tea was taken mostly in silence.

He carefully set the cups, saucers, and pot onto a tray and brought it over to Frank, setting it down on the desk in front of him. Frank made no move to reach for a cup or to pour. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers which he was not smoking. The cigarette had burnt down so low the ash was nearly at his fingers, about to break away and crumble under the pressure of its own weight. His arms and hands made wonderful lines, strong and defined, well-developed, possessing a natural elegance which came with working with one's hands. At this vicinity, Robert could see that though Frank had got his breathing under control, now that the sweat had cooled on his skin he was shivering lightly, a barely perceptible skitter running through his limbs, in spite of the mild night. Robert moved to the couch, retrieved a soft throw, and placed it around Frank's shoulders. The man started at this, scattering ash all over the floor (HIS floor), and he glowered at Robert, skepticism written on his face. He wouldn't be trying that again any time soon, he thought to himself, not without a slight trace of bitterness as he quickly cleared up the ash before it could do too much damage to the wooden floor.

Robert carried another chair over to the desk, and he could finally sit down and pour them tea, even if he was no longer particularly in the mood to do so. As he poured, Frank threw his cigarette butt into the ash tray on the desk, scraped his chair nearer to the tray (eliciting a wince from Robert), and put his hands around the tea cup, as Robert had described. He then used one hand to pull the throw tighter around himself, which Robert found oddly gratifying, before picking up the tea cup and bringing it to close to his chest, held between the hands he had just been admiring. Robert sat back in his chair, left leg crossed against his right, ankle resting on his knee, his tea cup held between his fingertips as he took small sips.

"Can you...remember what you dreamt about?" Robert ventured. He wasn't sure if Frank wanted to talk, but at least he could grant him an opportunity to do so, even if he didn't wish to.

Frank nodded. "It's always the same dreams, just different variations of them." He fell silent again and drank some tea. "I'm in a large room, I'm not sure exactly where it is, but I'm sitting around a table with my sister, my nephew and niece. We're reading, in Hebrew, I'm reading it aloud, they're following along. I'm even wearing a Yarmulke, I can feel it on my head. The kids are asking me questions, and I know the answers to them. I can hear myself speaking Hebrew, I can see the letters on the page before me, and it makes sense, when I'm dreaming, I know I'm forming words but now I can't even imagine what I could have been reading or saying, a fable perhaps, designed to bring wisdom or enlightenment, fuck knows. Laura looks content, and it's complete, the four of us." Frank swallowed thickly. "Then gas begins to come out of a vent above our heads, I'm the first one to notice. I drop the book, and climb onto the table, trying to stop it from coming out, what a fucking idiot, trying to prevent gas from entering the room using only my fingers. I know what gas it is, it's Zyklon B, what else, and I'm telling Laura and the kids to not breathe, to hold their breath. What fucking use is that, telling them not to breathe? The gas just keeps coming and coming...and I wake up. At least I wake up."

Robert too felt cold after listening, and Frank was clearly struggling not to lose control of himself, the muscles in his jaw working furiously to swallow back whatever was trying to escape. Robert wished he could make some gesture of comfort to Frank, to still him, by putting his hand on his thigh or placing the back of his hand against his clenched jaw. He took a large mouthful of tea after these thoughts had made themselves felt, and remained in his seat. Another uncomfortable thought came into his mind, uncomfortable for a different reason; he remembered being locked in a room with Frank, at the mercy of the Yakuza. "Your hair is fine." he'd said to Frank, and now he was all too aware that the other man must have woken from a violent dream and the reception he had got upon waking was a quip from Robert. His quick and sharp tongue had always been his power, and he had mostly no regrets about what words it gave life to, but in this instance he wished he could take it back. No wonder Frank had started at his simple gesture of putting a cover around his shoulders. He hadn't known Frank very well then, he still didn't know him very well now, but he found himself wishing to.

Robert thought carefully before speaking again. "Has reading your Kaddish helped at all or..." Was that too personal a question to ask, was he completely out of line with this enquiry? Frank shook his head but Robert wasn't sure whether the head shake indicated a straightforward "no" or instead a "I don't want to talk about it". Frank took a shallow breath and looked at Robert, lifting his cup up slightly. "The tea has helped." Robert tried to give a weak smile at this. Again, he did not know whether Frank meant it truly, or whether he wanted to, or whether he was simply attempting to deflect. If only life's ills could be solved with a cup of tea.

"Robert..." Frank began. "Is it selfish to want to die? Not to actively do something to end your life, or to wish to, but just to feel that you would welcome death very easily if it came?"

"I don't believe it's selfish, it can be a natural reaction. It can provide a sense of escape, knowing that it is there, a way out, release." Robert ventured.

"Yeah." Frank said softly. It was clearly a thought he had had already and had upbraided himself for. "I just...I can't help but feel that to wish for my own death is dishonouring Laura and the kids - and so many others. There are plenty out there who would exterminate me for the sole reason of my Jewishness. And so many have already been murdered. And instead I often wish to hand myself over to death?"

"Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"No. Fuck no. I mean, for me, no. Does that make sense? I don't want an afterlife. After this life I want just oblivion. But maybe it would exist for others. I don't know. You?"

"I have honestly never given it too much thought. I imagine it would be nice in some vague, undefined way but I do not know what form it would take, or why, or who I would attribute it to. I've always been far too busy with earthly issues to think on it for a sustained period of time."

The tea was cooling in his cup. He wanted to encourage Frank to go to bed, yet he also wished to continue sitting here and talking, no matter how painful the subject. Robert sighed, and replaced his cup on the tray. "Frank, perhaps you should actually try sleeping in a bed, it might make for an easier night."

"I'm not so sure about that. The day I got out of jail, I slept on the floor of my place. Beds have been difficult ever since then."

"Could you perhaps try, just to humour me? Because, you see, we've ended up in this rather odd situation where some of us are depending on you, and you having had some amount of decent sleep might ensure we come out of this relatively unscathed."

"Robert, after tonight, is it not pretty clear why I might want to avoid sleep as much as I am able to?"

"Great," Robert couldn't hold the words back. "Happy to embrace death, but not sleep. Makes perfect sense." A moment later. "I'm sorry for saying that."

Frank shrugged lightly. "You're not wrong though." Their eyes met briefly. Robert gathered up the tea things, brought them to the sink, washed and dried them before returning each piece to its proper place. When he faced Frank again he had already returned to working on one of his drawings, and was absorbed by it. He thought to say 'good night' to Frank before he returned to his bedroom but did not, for what would be the purpose of one sleepless man saying this to another?


	3. Chapter 3

Robert clutched the handle of his bag tighter, pulling it closer to his chest. He turned his head away from the window, unable to bear looking at the smoke rising into the sky, and more so, could not bear to watch San Francisco disappearing behind him. He didn't like this, he felt physically ill. He wanted to be back in his shop, in his rooms. All the things he had been forced to leave behind. He'd never been too far, or too long away, from his hometown before. Previous visits to the Neutral Zone had been all the confirmation he needed that he never wanted to leave San Francisco. Yet, it now appeared he might not be able to return to it. Not knowing was worse. He had no idea where they would be staying, he knew nobody in the Neutral Zone, he was stuck relying on Edward. All of his skills, his social capital, it was now utterly meaningless and worthless. He felt very small. And Frank. Frank. He was not able to focus on the question of Frank's whereabouts or current condition, and he could not forget it fully either, and so he attempted to somehow hold it at a distance from himself, if it had to be present. Today he could not even consider the possibility that Mr. Frink may not have survived, that the death which he too frequently had sought had caught him. He watched Edward for a moment, who was continuing to gaze out the window. What must he be experiencing currently? Robert sought to focus on that in a bid to make his own fear appear smaller. It did not work.

\-----------------------------------

They had found cheap accommodation for the night. He knew he had been getting on Edward's nerves all that evening, sniping about the low standard of their motel, bemoaning his fate condemned to the Neutral Zone, listing the objects he had had to leave behind. Edward was outside now, after rather shortly saying he needed a cigarette and a break from him. Robert sat on his bed, his bag on his lap, not willing to relinquish it, for fear of the sorts of people who would frequent this motel and would somehow try to take it from him. He wished he was back home. He wished he was a stronger, better person. He wished Frank was here. Frank's absence was the greatest evidence that something had gone terribly wrong.  
Ed reappeared, and sat down beside him on the bed.

"Bob, you can put your bag down, it'll be safe here. The doors do have locks." It wasn't said maliciously, but sincerely. Most of what Edward did or said was in utmost sincerity.

He placed his bag on the floor, close to his feet. He put his hand to his hair, to his tie, then his face; his fingers came away wet and he fumbled for his handkerchief, attempting to surreptitiously dry his eyes. He felt Edward squeeze his shoulder briefly.

\-------------------------------

Robert fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, but woke early the next morning, at the precise time he was used to, except now he had no shop to attend to. Unable to lie around, doing nothing, and unable to will himself to fall back asleep again, he got up as if it were just any other day, seeking to ignore the cramped and grimy state of the bathroom facilities. He spent a little longer on his attire, setting the tone for the routine he would form over the coming days. After having donned a suit and tie, and having examined his appearance in the mirror, he would carefully lay out and unwrap each of the objects he had managed to rescue from his shop; after inspecting them thoroughly, running his fingers over them to feel for any chip or tear or unevenness, he set about cleaning and polishing them before wrapping them up neatly and safely once more, returning them to his case, protected. This would kill a few hours but it was still not even noon by then. Edward would return around then, having recognized very quickly that it was better to leave Robert on his own in the mornings and to grant him some privacy. Robert felt somewhat sorry for Edward having to spend his time with him. Edward would drag him out to the local diner, and tell him if he'd heard anything or managed to contact anyone, he would attempt to interest Robert in the newspaper and hold a rather one-sided discussion. Robert did not want to talk, not here, he did not want the attention of the people around them directed their way. Robert would partake of a cup of liquid that did not deserve the title of coffee whilst Edward chatted to one of the waitresses who had already taken a shine to Edward; under any other circumstances it would have been touching, and Robert would have gently teased him about it. Now, it simply added to his anxiety and caused him to say one or two unkind things to Edward, in spite of himself. "How can you be so sure of her motives? How can you know what she's really after? Can you trust her?" The other man's face had fallen but he had sought to quickly cover it by replying with, "I trust her enough to put my eggs in front of me and I'm still OK so far."  
Robert was experiencing a distinct lack of appetite. The smell of this food alone was enough to make him ill. Edward had awkwardly attempted on a few occasions to entreat him to order something more than coffee. He declined every time. His stomach hurt him and it wasn't from hunger pangs, it was rather as if something were twisting and hotly tightening inside him, unending in how persistent jabs of pain tore at him. After the period of time they had already been away for he was certain his shop had been broken into and ransacked. Thoughts of this plagued him when he lay down in bed at night. He tried to sleep more, for longer stretches of time, to no avail, it was against the habits he had long instilled within himself.  
Was he holding Edward back? What were they going to do in the long run? Though he wanted to know he couldn't bring himself to discuss it with Edward. Each day passed as the one before it and he observed himself in the small mirror above the bathroom sink, an old uncared-for piece, covered in circles of brown rust, like liver spots. He prodded at his skin, dismayed at how he appeared. He had always been vain, he could freely admit that, and witnessing how swiftly he was descending into middle age distressed him, he was somehow disappointed in himself, mourning something he could not define. 

Sometimes Edward would bring up some ideal future, spoken of in vague, sweeping terms, "when we're back in San Francisco", "When we've found Juliana", "When we've become partners and we're doing good business". 

"There is not going to be a business now, Edward." 

"Bob, what are you talking about? Of course we're going to go into business together. It was the best idea you've had." 

"Don't pretend. You know as well as I do that there is no business, no partnership, without Frank." 

"But Frank will join us, I know he will. He's going to need money." 

"Frank can't ever join us because he is dead." 

"Don't you ever say that. No. Just...no." 

"Why? Saying it does not change anything." 

"Bob, I haven't heard anything either way, and believe me, I've been searching." 

"Searching for news of the fate of a known member of the Resistance, great, that will surely attract the right kind of attention." 

Edward ignored this. "I haven't heard anything. What I mean is, if Frank was dead we would have heard about it, the Kempeitai would be talking about it, it'd be news. Frank's alive. I just know he is. He has too much unfinished business to check out on us yet." 

Robert had said nothing in response to this. He continued to tell himself that Frank was dead, and he continued not to mourn the man. He continued to tell himself that Frank was dead even after Edward had burst into his room one day to tell him that Frank was alive, he was alive, he had got a message through to them, and he was hiding out in San Francisco. 

"How do you know the message is actually from Frank? It's likely a trap." 

Edward had looked at him disbelievingly, sighed, and accepted that this was Robert's stubborn position. "Well, perhaps you'll believe me when you see him. We have to go back." 

Edward was cheerful now, stuffing his clothes into his case in a manner that caused Robert to wince inwardly. The other man did not notice this, he talked about how it would be when they were back in San Francisco, his predictions for the future as wildly vague as ever. How the three of them would be able to go into partnership now, how they would be able to use Bob's contacts and Frank would make art, not just memorabilia, but his own stuff too, and it was going to be so great. Robert remained silent, not wanting to dent Edwards clear joy. Certainly, Edward had good salesman skills but it was Frank's ability as an artist that would have been the foundation of their partnership, and his assured ticket into the homes of those who condescended to him; if they perceived him at all. 

The bus ride back was broken by Edward's interjections of what they needed to do when they got back. 

"We're going to need to get a place to stay, we can't keep staying with you, it's been too long now." 

"Thank you for such a considerate view." Before he could fully process the odd feeling in his chest at the news that he was to return to living on his own, Edward had further added; 

"You'll help us, won't you? 

"How?" 

"Well, me and Frank, particularly Frank, can't be seen trying to move into somewhere in San Francisco. If we get you the money you can sort it out for us. You're not at all suspicious to them, it'd be the perfect screen." 

"Thank you for the compliment." he responded, but the dry tone in his voice seemed to pass over Edward. 

When they arrived back in San Francisco Edward made to depart in one direction, and saw Robert was not following. 

"Don't you want to come see Frank?" 

"I want to see my shop first. If Mr. Frink is actually still with us, knowing him, it will not take him all too long to pop up and to resume ruining my life." 

Edward shook his head slightly at Robert, and left. Robert wended his way to his shop, his rooms, thinking how much easier it had been to ignore the contradictions in his life before he had met Frank and Edward, how they acted as daily reminders of what he was and what he was not. He reached his shop, and mouth dry, he took everything in; the door was still locked, the windows intact. Unlocking the door, he moved quietly in his familiar space, checking everything. It was stale and stuffy, certainly, the displays needed to be dusted but other than that, everything was untouched. He checked his own private rooms, which were also secure. As he set himself to work, throwing the windows open, gathering soft cloths together, he realized how unimportant he was to the Kempeitai, to this city. Frank and Edward would be chased and called in for questioning, their places watched and searched. He had, however, made no great impression, caused no worry to them. He was neither considered important enough to be entitled to move within the high echelons of this society, nor was he deemed a threat to it. He was, to them, average, that word he so much despised and feared.  
He set to work, half the time pondering excessive fancy schemes in relation to his work and what he could do to finally get someone to notice him, to accord him the respect he was due. Then he would think of nothing, lulled by the repetitive movements of cleaning and polishing. The silence of these rooms now seemed foreign to him. The sun began to set, casting a softer hue over the rooms. He continued to clean, and set everything to rights. There came a loud knock at the door, which caused him to jump and almost lose his grip on the object he had been holding. After taking a moment to calm himself (The Kempetei and the gun in his face because of course he would end up being killed by one of them, the irony, the illusion of status he had accrued for himself revealed for what it was, he was nothing to them, and he could not bow and scrape his way out of this). 

Irritated by his uncontrollable reaction to this disturbance he went to the door and saw Frank Frink looking through the glass at him. It was only after a long moment, and when Frank began to gesture to him that perhaps he could open the door and let him in, that Robert reacted. Frank stood in front of him, a small smile touching his lips. Only upon seeing Frank in the flesh, returned, did Robert understand what it was that had seemed so terrible to him about believing that the man had been killed- the fact that in this world, under this regime, Frank Frink was not supposed to exist, and yet he had. There had been hope in this, a small piece, snuffed out when he thought Frank was dead. He had indeed existed, and he had improbably continued on, even if at times it may have been out of pure spite. The artist producing his original works and forgeries, the resistance member fiercely protecting his loved ones, the Jewish, not-Jewish, newly-Jewish man, the man who had seen the best and worst of humanity, who had been the best and worst of himself too, alternately, simultaneously; he was such a powerful, vital mixture of contradictions that made a whole, and Robert, in this moment, felt utterly overwhelmed. 

Frank shifted from one foot to the other, disconcerted by this mute reception. 

"Robert, are you alright? Do you mind that I came by? It's just Ed came to see me, and yeah, I wanted to see you as well, but..." 

"No, I'm glad. I wanted to see you too, I just...I had to see my shop, oh God, that sounds awful, I mean, I'm glad you're not dead." Robert stuttered to a halt as Frank reached out and took his hand between both of his, holding tightly for a moment before releasing him. 

"I am also glad I'm not dead." 

"Really?" Robert managed to shoot back. 

"Yes, really. Currently, anyway. I am also glad you're glad I survived." 

Robert looked at Frank properly, noting the cuts and scraps littering his face, neck, and arms, half-healed, speaking plainly of the explosion he had somehow survived. Yet, his eyes were brighter than they'd been before, changing his demeanour entirely in spite of the sharp red lines elsewhere. 

"Do you want to tell me about your daring escape or...?" 

"Not at the moment." 

"Where were you staying until now?"

"I stayed with a friend of the family, him and his kids. Jewish, like me." 

Robert was somewhat startled at Frank's ready reference to this subject, and his identifying with it, but perhaps this was the reason for the change in him; had being in the home of a Jewish family allowed him space and time to examine this part of himself?

"It helped, didn't it?" 

"Sometimes. Other times it made it worse. Makes it worse. It brings Laura and the kids closer to me. There are times when I crave that, and there are times when I can't even bear to think of them." Frank fell silent, and Robert cast about for something to say, when the most obvious topic hit him. 

"Edward said you'd need to get a place to stay, so I assume that's why you came. I can search out a place for you if you tell me what it is you're looking for, or well, what you can afford. When you're settled we can organize working together if you are still interested, because, let me tell you, Edward sure is."

"Robert," Frank cut across him. "I didn't come for any specific purpose, I didn't come to use your contacts to get an apartment." He was frowning now, troubled. 

"I just assumed. I mean, why else would you come so quickly?" 

"Robert." Frank looked at him sharply, his gaze unflinching, and Robert did not know where to place himself. "You remember when we were warned, by Juliana though Arnold, that there was going to be an A-bomb in San Francisco, and that we had to get out? Juliana warned the people she cared about, her family, me, Ed. She doesn't know you, so it was me who warned you, and forced you to leave San Francisco as well. Do you not get that? I wanted to make sure, and Ed wanted to make sure, that you got out too, that you were safe too. If Juliana knew you she would have wanted for you to be safe as well, because in spite of your best attempts, we do like you Robert, and we care about you. We don't just want you around for your contacts, alright?" 

"I...I guess I'm not used to this." 

"Clearly." 

Robert's gaze fell on Frank's right hand, bandaged in white, clumsily done, already soaked through with bright red blood. This was not from the explosion at the Kempetei headquarters, his was another wound, received in the ongoing, seemingly unending battle Frank was part of. This was how it would be, he understood. The explosion had not changed Frank in this manner. He would continue, in one way or another, as part of the Resistance. Robert didn't know what he was himself; he was clearly not a member of the Resistance, but he was also fairly certain that his association with Mr. Frink put him in a rather grey area. And yet, he would not change it. He thought of the first time Frank Frink had entered his shop, he thought of him holding his copy of the Kaddish, of him asleep at his desk. Frank was a part of his life now, and again, he could not express exactly what that role was, and he was frightened at this development. Before, it had been easy. Mr. Frink represented to him everything he did not want to be, everything he rejected, condemned, scorned, and saw as utterly other to him. What a ridiculous figure he must cut at times, he thought, in how he took some sense of power and security and confirmation of his own position in being able to mock the two men who had been staying in his apartment. Somehow these definitions and boundaries had lost their meaning, becoming harder and harder to perceive. And perhaps, in these times of uncertainty, of having to reconsider where he found himself, and on what side, perhaps Frank was, unexpectedly, the best companion he could have.


	4. Chapter 4

For some time now Robert was fully convinced that the only reason Frank Frink's continued association with the Resistance made him quite so anxious was because of the threat it posed to his own well-being, and the viability of his shop and attendant career. And though this certainly played an undeniable role, he soon had to admit to himself there was another aspect, quietly and insistently making itself known; he could not bear to see Frank getting hurt and injured, particularly in such a reckless manner. 

Robert had happened to pay a visit to Frank and Edward's new apartment shortly after Frank had returned from another run in with the authorities - an attack that had gone wrong, and it had come to desperate fighting at close quarters, before Frank and his comrades had been able to flee. Edward had been rummaging somewhat ineffectually through a makeshift first aid kit, and Frank had looked up at Robert when he came in; blood was running thickly from a gash above his eyebrow, his glasses hung loosely from his fingertips, smeared in red. The blood had made a path down his face, tracking over the bridge of his nose, effectively cutting his face in two. When he looked at Robert he must have seen something in his gaze as he had sought to minimise his injuries. "I'm fine. It looks worse than it is. You should see the others, they had it worse than I did." Every time Frank would shrug off any references to his war wounds in this same manner; oh, it wasn't too bad, just a scratch really, it didn't hurt, it wasn't deep, at least it wasn't broken, well, he could still work at least, couldn't he? 

Almost without being aware of it, Robert had, in one swift movement, crossed the floor, his left hand pulling his handkerchief from his pocket. It was folded perfectly and was spotlessly clean, the material excellent, of course. He bent over Frank, carefully wiping the blood from his face. Frank sat still receiving this attention silently. 

"How long can it take you to find what you need in that kit, Mr. McCarthy?" 

An indignant "I'm trying, Jeez." was the response. 

Clearing the blood away had revealed that for once Frank had been right in his assertion that it appeared worse than it was, the cut was shallow, and would easily be taken care of. Edward had finally found the equipment required; he came over to them, and Robert automatically stepped aside to make room for him. It was only later, back in his own room, the original purpose of his visit forgotten, that he realised seeing Frank hurt, on a regular basis, somehow distressed him. He washed the handkerchief but no matter how much he rubbed at it, or subjected it to later rewashes he could not fully eradicate the pale brown traces of Frank's blood. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert was torn from sleep by a repeated flurry of knocks at his door. Groggily, he got out of bed, throwing a dressing gown on for extra warmth. It was Frank. Again. Always, it seemed these days. Before Robert could make any comment referring to the uncivilized hour of night or inquire as to why he was the lucky recipient of this visit, Frank had already pushed past him, without a word, and he saw clearly then that Frank was once more injured, badly this time. 

"Sit down, now." 

"No, Robert, I'm fine, it's..." 

"If I have to hear 'I'm fine' one more time from you...Just for once, Mr. Frink, do what you're told."

"Robert, for fuck's sake, it's not my blood!" Frank barked out.

Robert's gaze searched him, and now it was obvious the mess covering Frank belonged to some other third party. He stood for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. Frank was unable to meet his eyes and even from a distance Robert could perceive how tightly Frank's body was wound up with nervous tension. 

"I just...I need to hide out here for a bit. Things got really out of hand tonight. I don't want to lead anyone back to Ed and the new place." 

Robert put his hands on his hips, not in a gesture of admonishment, but only to give them something to do, to stop them fidgeting, to give the appearance of calm which he imagined Frank needed. 'Things had got out of hand'. Someone must be dead. Someone must have been killed, by Frank it appeared.  
Frank had shucked off his leather jacket, allowing to to fall onto a nearby chair. The front of his shirt, his hands, and up past his wrists were covered with blood, tackily drying and turning a dirty shade of red-brown. He was staring at his hands, touching his shirt, a muscle working in his jaw the entire time. Suddenly, he moved, heading for the bathroom, seeming to to have forgotten Robert's presence. He went after him, and entered the bathroom too, standing to the side as Frank ran the taps at full power, splashing water everywhere in a manner that even now managed to irritate Robert. He was so on edge, and Robert knew of no way in which to help pull the other man back. Frank's ablutions mostly served to get him wet rather than remove the offending blood. It smeared it, loosened the dry pigment once more and pale red rivulets ran down his arms. 

"At least my sister isn't alive to see this. Or the kids. Look at me. Look at me." He said, his voice devoid of animation. His hands shook and his eyes were fixed on his reflection in the mirror above the wash basin. Robert felt cold listening to him, but witnessing how he appeared caused him to also experience a start wave of compassion for the man. 

"Frank," he said, his voice low, but he seemed not to hear him. 

"I've killed people. Violently ended their lives. And in the moment, I know it's the course of action I have to take, I have no choice, but after...it stops being so simple. Image if my sister could see me now. My niece. My nephew. They would not recognise me. At least that's something, they did not have to see what I've become." 

Robert swallowed thickly, wishing for some simple words of wisdom, some solution to this, a balm which could be smoothed over such rawness. 

"Your sister knew you, and she loved you. She would still recognise you." 

"I'm capable of killing, of murdering. No, I don't..." He had stopped to clean himself of the blood, and Robert turned off the taps.

"You don't kill for pleasure. It is a last resort. To survive. To protect others. I'm certain I too would take someone else's life if it meant my survival. I would take their life before they would take mine. I hope though, that I am never tested on that." 

"She would hate me if she knew. Like her husband does. It's my fault they died, and all I do in their memory is become a killer."

"Frank, no. No, you have to stop thinking this." 

He said nothing in reply, but it was all too apparent that his plea had not registered with Frank. But fuck, he looked a sorry sight, covered in blood, his clothes damp, shivering. "Let's get you cleaned up, and we can talk more then if you want to, all right? I'm going to run you a bath first." 

Frank remained silent and Robert could tell he was far away from this present moment. If being covered in blood was currently what was distressing Frank, well, that he could at least do something about, even if it was only a temporary measure, superficial. As the tub filled with hot water and the steam began to curl through the enclosed space, Robert wondered if that was all he was capable of, the superficial. Had his lifelong pursuit of status through memorabilia and nice objects left him incapable of engaging beyond such a level? Was this the reason why his bed had been empty for so long, unless he paid for it to be occupied? Now was not the time for such thoughts; one of them had to remain on an even keel.  
He had pushed Frank onto the edge of the bath, and he continued to sit, motionless. Robert trailed his fingers through the almost too-hot water, and mixed in a few drops of various different oils. The scent was as much for his benefit as for Mr. Frink's. He spent many evenings after a quick shower to remove the grim of the day, lying in warm scented water, the door shut on the outside world, the scents transporting him to some imagined haven, with softer contours, and less mess and confusion, more pleasingly arranged. Since sleep did not provide much of a respite for Frank, perhaps this would. 

"It's ready for you. You can leave your clothes outside the bathroom door, I'll get them washed for you." Frank nodded distractedly, and Robert removed himself. He quickly made up a bed for Frank, assuming he would not be in any state to return to his own place just yet. He then checked outside the bathroom door, and gathered the small heap of clothes Frank had deposited there. He stood by the door for a moment, listening to the sounds of the other man moving around in the water, the gentle slap of it against the sides of the tub, the trickle of the liquid as he raised his limbs in and out of the water. Could he have offered to remain with him, to assist him in scrubbing the blood off his skin, with washing the filth out of his hair? He made himself walk away from the door and from these thoughts, setting about the task of cleaning Frank's clothes.  
He was soon absorbed in the task he had set himself, not only because his mind was looking for something to distract itself with and focus on, but also because, give him strength, Mr. Frink's clothes were in an appalling state, and had been so a long time before another man's blood had touched them. 

"Robert, can I ask you for...?"

He started, and holding Frank's wet shirt in his hands, which he was currently attempting to purge of stains whilst his other clothes were processed by the washing machine. The owner of the (low quality) shirt stood to his side, covered in only a towel and dripping water onto his wooden floor.

"Do you have something I could borrow that I could wear? Seeing as my clothes are currently being-" He frowned at Robert's hands and what they held. "attacked."

"Your shirt is being attended to properly for the first time in its mediocre life, and if you could kindly stop dripping water onto my wooden floors that would be most appreciated." 

Frank's hair was slicked back and darkened by the water, his face was tinged with pink from the heat of the bathroom, and the expanse of his bare chest and torso appeared quite obscene to Robert at that moment. He released Frank's shirt, turned his back to the other man, and made towards his own wardrobe. He caught himself examining his clothes for what would suit Mr. Frink best, and mentally shook himself. The man only needed something to wear until his own clothes were ready, nothing he owned would properly fit Frank anyway, and would not suit him in terms of tone or style. He grabbed some items, which he then pressed into Frank's hands, resolutely not looking at him. 

He sat down on the couch, and lit up a cigarette for himself. Frank reappeared and took up position beside him. He lit a further cigarette for Frank and offered it to him. He experienced an odd sensation at seeing him in his own clothes; his prediction had indeed proved correct, and they did not do much for him, and yet, it was somehow pleasing to look at. Frank took the proferred cigarette wordlessly, and tilting his head back, he inhaled of it deeply, sinking into the couch. He closed his eyes, his dark eyelashes soft against the newly formed lines under and around his eyes. Robert allowed himself to gaze at Frank in this position, how he cut such an unintentionally elegant figure, the sweep of his neck, the lines of his arms, one strong thigh crossed over the other. 

For as long as he could remember, Robert had taken equal pleasure in looking upon male and female figures, and for equally as long he had fiercely fought to block such thoughts out of his mind, and crush such feelings aroused in him. It was bad enough being an American here, living under occupation, he already had to be constantly vigilant as regards to his behaviour, his manners, his appearance; to even allow himself to entertain such thoughts was wholly reckless, bordering on a death wish, in both the literal sense as well as social.  
His mother had known, in spite of how he had worked to prevent even knowing it himself. She had softly broached it once when they were taking their tea together and Robert had promptly managed to spill their meagre amount of sugar on the floor. On his hands and knees cleaning it up he had been able to hide his tears of confusion. She had known, and loved him all the same. She had also never raised the subject again, or commented on his actions, or lack thereof. She just accepted it all, him - well, look how she ended up, he reminded himself.  
Even as the haze of the cigarette began to settle in around him he could still experience the clear image, unfading, of her rushing to intervene in a confrontation between two people on the street and the police. It had been the last time he was allowed to see her. Well, he had actually had the choice to go and see her in prison, he was told by the officer, but would that be such a clever idea? The officer had continued on to question whether it was advisable to associate himself with an enemy of the state like this, a woman who would so flagrantly go against the natural order by defending such people, such deviants? Just because she had chosen such a path did not mean Robert did not possess the choice to follow a different, better way in life. And to his eternal shame, he had done as they wished, he had not visited her, or contacted her. He had been so terrified, and without her, so alone.  
Shortly after this they communicated to him that his mother had committed suicide in prison, a sign of her remorse, or a sign of her inability to continue to live in a society which clashed so strongly with her traitorous convictions. Robert knew even then that this was not true. His mother would never have taken her own life. She had been eradicated and he had never spoke of her again but thought of her always. He sometimes wondered if she had continued to love him, even when she had been informed (because of course they would have informed her) of her son's refusal to visit her. In many ways, it would be worse if she had remained steadfast in her love of him, another sign of how superior her strength of character was to his. But other days, other nights, other moments, Robert found himself comforted by the thought that the regime had not been able to break that love, that it had remained wholly hers, uncorrupted. He thought of telling Frank about this, to somehow communicate to him how powerful the love of family was, and there was no way his sister, niece, and nephew would ever have ceased to love him. He thought about it, attempted to practice the sentence in his head, but found himself unable to say it. Yet, he had considered it, and part of him very much wanted to tell Frank about his mother; he simply was not ready or capable of doing so; yet.  
But if he was to talk about his mother, it would reveal him for who he really was, a person owned by the State. From the moment he chose not to visit her, they had known - the power of the State, his fear of them had been stronger than his love for his mother. He would never be allowed to forget that. They knew this too, and so they were able to simply leave him be, and lead his small life, they had nothing to fear from him.

"I'm sorry." Frank said, disturbing Robert's ruminations. He enunciated the words slowly; unaccustomed to the cigarettes, they were already affecting him. 

"For what?" 

"For dragging you into all of this. You didn't ask for this." 

"No. But you're here now. We'll deal with it." 

"Do you ever find yourself," Frank took another drag on the cigarette. "thinking about something you've done, it might be small or forgettable, a short moment, and still you can't stop thinking about it, months later it continues to pop up?" 

"Months? Try years."

They lapsed into silence once more, but not an uncomfortable one. 

"I'm still trying to learn to read Hebrew," Frank resumed. "And my friend helps me, we talk about what the texts mean, or what we think they mean. There's a part of the Torah which forbids Jewish people to injure themselves. Not in service of an idol, and not even in grief over a loved one's death. It is seen as a rebellion of a kind, or as an abuse of the bodies God has loaned to us, for us to care for. I was so angry once, just at Juliana for not being there, angry at Inspector Kido, at everything, and I smashed my fist through glass." He raised his right hand slightly, extended his fingers, the scarring running from the back of his hand, over his fingers and down to the side of his little finger. "They incinerated my sister's body, my niece and nephew too, and I dare do this to myself? They are murdered because they are Jewish and I proceed to go and do something which is expressly forbidden by the religion, I insult what caused them to be killed?" 

The cigarette was finished and Robert automatically lit up another two for them, and passed one to Frank. 

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. I know I couldn't tell Ed about that ever, he - he sees too much good in me, and something like that would just scare him." 

By the time they finished their second cigarette Robert was nearly overcome with tiredness and the effects of the product they were smoking. He struggled into a standing position, Frank following. He showed the other man to the bed he had made up for him to sleep in and was nearly gone when Frank called his name. 

"This is going to sound so...could you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep. It sounds ridiculous, I know" The words tumbled out of his mouth, trying to justify themselves. "Sleep is going to be difficult tonight, I know that already, and I know you're tired, I'm sorry. But could you, please, just..."

Robert nodded, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Frank looked so young suddenly, smaller too, pale. He had pulled the covers up around himself, and Robert caught a murmured "Thank you". He remained seated, but as the stillness of the room grew stronger, and the darkness could almost allow him to believe it wasn't happening, he too pulled back the blankets, and lay down beside Frank.


	5. Chapter 5

Robert awoke with a heavy weight on his chest, softness tickling his nose, and a strong heat against his skin. Only a brief moment was needed for him to recognise the dark head pressed against him as that of Frank Frink. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. When he had lain down beside the other man last night they had been sharing a bed, yes, but they had not been touching, at all. During the night, Frank had somehow ended up in his arms without disturbing his sleep. It was most certainly not an unpleasant position, rather the opposite, but it seemed so precarious, a short, strange interlude to be accepted before it was ended.  
Regular huffs of breath broke against his chest, warming and then cooling him. Frank shifted in his arms, squirming and resettling himself; for the briefest of moments he felt the hardness of Frank's morning arousal against his upper thigh, and then it was gone. Muted light came through the closed curtains, indicating the lateness of the hour. He could not check a clock from this position without moving but he guessed it was already past opening time for the shop. And yet he didn't move- he kept his arm around Frank's shoulders, his thumb grazing repeatedly back and forth across his skin in a manner he told himself was intended as soothing, comforting. For he had to convince himself that this completely compromising position he found himself in was only an act of kindness, of wanting to comfort another person, anything else could not be entertained, he would not allow it. He thought of Mrs. Kasoura, the kind of woman he had been brought up to understand as desirable, and yet he would never have someone like her, by the rule of that very same society. Frank was someone he was not ever meant to desire, for more than one reason, and yet, he appeared nothing like how the media and schoolbooks had warned him such people would look. Beauty had never been given to Robert, and now, he held it, and did not understand. He blamed his weakness last night and continuing weakness in the morning on an unfulfilled hunger. It did not mean anything but it was a dangerous game to indulge in. 

He sensed the shift in Frank's breathing and knew he was awake too. How would Frank react to the position he found himself in? He would most likely blame Robert somehow, would change in the blink of an eye, the transformation he had witnessed many times since coming to know the other man, and that he had more than once been on the receiving end of; how he would turn from still and low-voiced to physically aggressive and harsh-toned, barking out threats and expletives. Perhaps, Robert considered, he is like the rest of us, disappointed and reacting out of this disappointment in the moment. Disappointed one time too many, at the path life has taken, or disappointed by another person. It was not to excuse the violent figure he would become, and frightening, reckless; but Robert could understand that, if nothing else. How many times would he have liked to do something similar, to lash out and crush those who condescended to him, rebuffed him, and put him very firmly in his place, and reminded him of his second class status in this country? Just because he had not practiced fighting or inflicting pain did not mean he was insensitive to experiencing such desires, to obliterate the other. 

Robert's hand had somehow migrated from Frank's shoulder to where his hair joined the nape of his neck; he had such soft, thick hair, lovely to the touch. They remained so for some long moments, both awake, and aware that the other was awake also, but not breaking their hold, the rhythm of Robert's light petting lulling them both into a peaceful state. Should he be the one to remove himself from the position first, Robert wondered, or should it be Frank? Did it really matter? Was there power at play here, something to be risked and lost? 

"Well, this is not the way I expected to wake up this morning." Frank said, his voice quiet but vibrating through Robert's chest at this proximity. Robert made a small noise of amusement. Indeed. 

"But, it...thank you. For last night, for this. It might have been a big ask, but- yeah." Frank trailed off, and slowly heaved himself up off of Robert. Robert let his arm fall away, pulling himself into an upright position, nodding at Frank. The other man sat on the edge of the bed, his face half turned towards Robert. 

"Last night, after everything was fucked, and got so out of hand, I knew I would have those dreams, about my family, of their death, of my own death. I just couldn't do it again, go through those dreams yet again. Thank you for staying with me. I don't know if I can say I slept well last night, but without a doubt, I slept better, those dreams left me in peace for once."

"Frank, I -" Robert sat, at a loss as to how to proceed. Words never failed him, they were his power, his tool to establish his position in a given situation, to belittle someone, or demonstrate his education and superiority. And now he found himself abandoned by his facility with this language. He had no desire to make his usual sarcastic remark, even if it would be as an attempt to lighten the mood. Frank was being so honest with him, using such simple words, it would be an insult to meet that with such a response. He wished he could say "Any time" or "My pleasure", but how would such phrases be interpreted? The longer a silence went on the worse it would become. He searched for something and his own lack of words prompted him to consider what Frank himself had failed to say. 

"I know," he began. "that I am not like you or Edward, in the resistance, or actively fighting, and that this might make me seem- well, not suspicious, because otherwise we would not be here. Furthermore, when I say 'suspicious', I do mean suspicious to you because I am quite certain our actions are suspicious to the Kempeitai." he caught himself before he could slip into a full on ramble. "I mean to say, you can still discuss the details of what happens if you want to. You don't need to be wary of me in that regard, or to operate under the misapprehension that I need to be protected from such stories. You can tell me, if you want to." 

Frank appeared to take a moment to consider this. "I don't want to talk about it now. Perhaps another time. It is good talking to you, Robert, actually, even though I know my way with words can sometimes leave a lot to be desired." Robert thought of Frank's charcoal drawings of his family suffering, broken Swastikas, gaping, anguished faces emerging from blackness; whatever facility Frank may have lacked when it came to the spoken word he had it in abundance when it came to art.  
Frank had made no move to leave. 

"You have to meet them today, don't you? After what happened last night?" Robert ventured, searching for a reason behind Frank's hesitation. He nodded in reply. "Are they going to be pissed at you rather than grateful to you for saving them again?" 

"Pissy. Always. Grateful doesn't come into it for them." 

"Be pissy right back." 

Frank turned to him, and Robert unprepared, felt the full force of his eyes and their dark warmth. "That, I can do." 

\----------------------------

Their days fell into some kind of pattern, not quite a routine; predictable routine was not possible under this current regime and its uncertain future. Robert employed Edward to work in his shop. He was good with the customers, and could somehow appeal to them in a way Robert could not, and he was able to admit to this. Not out loud necessarily, but he would never deny something that was good for his business. Edward took to the work, observed how Robert ordered the daily routine, of stock take, purchases, orders, deliveries, advertising. He undertook the tasks and quickly became adept at them. Robert was not going to leave him man the shop alone any time soon, however, it was nice to have a colleague, someone to share the space with and bitch about difficult or disdainful customers to.  
Frank continued his association with the Resistance, roping Edward in on an irregular basis that was growing increasingly regular. Robert hated those nights, smoking, alone, wondering what the hell was going down and if they had survived another operation unscathed. Frank never requested him to take part and he knew it would never happen, yet Robert wondered sometimes if he was ever asked, would he say yes? Should he? Fighting had never held any romantic or heroic appeal for him, it only appealed to him in moments of frustration. He knew it was something he would not be gifted at, he would probably be more a liability for Frank than anything else.  
He was able to offer one thing to Frank at least, and that was his home, as a bolthole, a refuge, and increasingly, as a place he could spend time in without the excuse of hiding from the authorities or needing to recover after an attack gone awry, resulting in injury. He wondered if Edward ever had any comment or opinion on this, the increased amount of time he and Frank appeared to be spending together, but Edward never betrayed a word on the subject. Frank's work space remained in Robert's apartment and he did not question finding him there regularly, bent over a sketch or a new piece of work. Sometimes they sat on the sofa together, sharing tea, or cigarettes. Robert would peruse the latest popular Japanese novel whilst Frank dedicated himself to his Hebrew. Robert attempted to act indifferently to this yet he would casually watch Frank out of the corner of his eye, turning the pages of his novel every so often without having read anything. Frank would practice the Hebrew lettering, something he mastered swiftly enough, and the lines he created were beautifully rendered, albeit meaningless to Robert. Speaking the language seemed to cause Frank greater problems; his finger followed the line of text in front of him as he silently mouthed the words to himself. Robert could not ascertain whether it was embarrassment which prevented the other man from giving voice to the words whilst he was present or if something else entirely held him back.  
One day, it happened, and Robert was so startled by Frank's low murmuring he nearly dropped his book. Recovering quickly, he stilled himself, for fear any outward reaction on his part would cause Frank to shut up. It was difficult to distinguish individual words or syllables as Frank spoke so quietly, and on his first encounter with this language he could perceive no relation to English or Japanese. Rather the sounds seemed akin to a chant, mesmerizing, formed far back in the throat. It was certainly strange, to him, while Frank appeared so at home in it, though he was only beginning to command this tongue.  
Frank's sleep patterns remained erratic at best, and Robert couldn't tell whether his progress in Hebrew or his increasing association with the Resistance was contributing to making it worse or better. Some nights were passed sleeplessly, others he succumbed to nightmares. Some nights he shared Robert's bed. He could never predict when it would occur. There were mornings when he woke up, surprised at the presence of the slumbering form next to him. Mostly though, even after Frank would join him he was unable to find rest, and Robert was unbearably aware of the other man's wakefulness. He could, in blunt strokes, sketch out to him himself where Frank's thoughts dwelled on such nights, but they did not address them directly, even as they lay side by side. If Frank did succumb to nightmares whilst sharing his bed, Robert still hesitated before attempting to bridge the gap between them and offer some gesture of reassurance. He did not know whether Frank wanted his mere presence or physical contact in some form. That was another subject upon which they did not lose too many words. 

He could not say for certain how Frank thought of him. One morning he had come upon Frank working on a sketch in a notebook. So absorbed was he in applying himself to this task that he did not notice Robert's gaze upon the page. It was him. Frank was creating a drawing of him. Robert had been so utterly bewildered he had reverted to what he had always used, a quick remark. 

"I never took you to be a shameless flatterer, Mr. Frink. Do you do this in all your studies? I fear that does not say a great deal about your skills as an artist." 

Frank, after recovering from his initial surprise, had frowned at the drawing in front of him, looked up to Robert, examining him so intensely that Robert had once more been unsettled, before the other man returned his gaze to the paper. 

"No. This is just what you look like." 

Robert had had no idea how to respond to that, whether seriously or sarcastically, and so instead he had simply left the room. The drawing, done in clean, precise lines of pencil had given a noble elegance to his face that Robert could not perceive in his own features. After that he had found himself searching his own reflection for what Frank could see but he could not. He did not catch sight of the drawing again after this. Robert thought to perhaps, in a casual manner, inquire after the fate of the sketch, but Edward's news changed everything the day he rushed in to Robert, saying he had to leave early. 

"What precisely could be of such importance that you believe it would convince me to give you time off work?" Robert has said as he methodically tallied receipts with the accounts ledger, printing the numbers in his clear hand. 

Edward's face was beaming, with sheer unadulterated joy. "She came back, Robert, she made it back safe, she's here, she called me." 

"Who?" Robert had asked, confused. 

"Juliana. Juliana. She called Arnold, Arnold gave her this number, she doesn't know our new flat, Frank doesn't know yet, I'm going to meet her and bring her to Frank." He was already halfway out the door, not able to hold himself back and wait for Robert's response, assuming that he would just have to agree to this, he would understand the importance of Juliana, the importance of Juliana for Edward, for Frank. 

\-------------------------------------

He sat for a few moments after Edward's rushed departure, perfectly still, the silence of his shop settling in around him. She really must be something else, to induce such a reaction in Mr. McCarthy. In what manner would Frank receive her? Would Juliana's return herald the reappearance of the Frank Frink Robert had never known, the one Juliana had fallen in love with? Would they team up together in the Resistance, taking on the Nazis as a power couple? He did experience a strong compulsion to see them together, to see her, he had not yet seen what she looked like, and he needed to know. He waited, that evening, the next day, and only then did he allow himself to pay a visit to their apartment, he could not intrude upon them too soon after their initial reunion.  
It was Frank who opened the door to admit him, and the unfamiliar softness in his eyes was inescapable. A young woman stood up upon Robert's arrival, quietly nervous, anyone new was to be treated with suspicion, clearly. She was beautiful. Her grey eyes were bright, full of kindness, her figure exquisitely slim and proportionate. He could only admire her. Frank introduced them, and she shook his hand, her grip firm, her smile gentle, observing him keenly. The other man was moving around the flat, back and forth, unable to sit still, wanting and needing to find things to do for Juliana, and a glance at Edward's face told Robert that this was how it had always been. To Edward's credit he sought to include Robert in their conversation, which centred mostly on Juliana's escape from the East Coast and her journey back here. It was apparent, however, that Robert was being given the edited version only, and a different, more complete narrative would be granted to Frank and Edward. 

"Bob is totally gone on Japanese stuff too, y'know, like you." 

Juliana looked at him with interest and they exchanged some brief sentences on the subject. As soon as it was socially acceptable for him to take his leave he did so, retreating to his shop. His stomach twisted and roiled, and he did not want to seek to put a name on the reason why his body was reacting in this manner. 

Frank's visits to his rooms fell away, and Robert told himself he was not surprised. His own presence at Mr. Frink's and Mr. McCarthy's flat became rarer. He began to resent the orderliness and neatness of his own shop, feeling oppressed by its sterility, and frightened that what had always pleased him no longer brought him any pleasure. 

One day, Frank entered the shop, and Robert looking up from examining new stock was forcefully reminded of the first time Mr. Frink had crossed his threshold; he had had no idea then how this man would come to dominate the direction his life had taken. A few weeks had passed since Juliana's return and already Frank's role in his life was receding. He assumed that their activities in the Resistance had intensified. Even Edward was distracted at work, but Robert had quickly sussed that this was more to do with the arrival of Juliana's sister than anything else more sinister.  
After not having seen Frank these past weeks it hit Robert, hard, shaking him, how he had missed Frank's appearance, his presence, he had missed his drawings, his clutter, his voice. 

"Can I come in or are you busy?" 

Robert shook his head to this. They stood facing one another. He knew he should offer to sit down, or offer him tea, even just say something, but he could not. Frank shifted from one foot to the other and back again. "I haven't seen you in a while, I wanted to come over." 

"Well, as I am not a member of the Resistance my day to day business tends to be more mundane, particularly when you are not around, so there is not so much to report." He was aware that he was coming off as arch and dismissive, and perhaps he even intended this. Frank, however, did not seem to take the hint, and instead stepped forward, gripping Robert's forearms, close to the wrist. Robert stepped back, breaking the hold. 

"It's good to see you too." 

"I don't think this is advisable, Mr. Frink." 

"What?" Frank frowned at him. 

"Now that Ms. Crain has returned I think our association should return to the purely professional." 

Frank's face cleared, becoming expressionless. "Right. Right." He opened his mouth to say something else, closed it, saying nothing. And then he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Robert received a card in the mail, from Juliana, asking if it would be possible for her to come over during the coming week at a time suitable to him, so that they could have tea and talk. The envelope and card were beautiful, off-white, heavy paper, and Juliana's handwriting was as elegant as she appeared, her script heavily influenced by her passion for the Japanese arts. He placed the card on the desk in front of him and scrutinised it in this manner; he found it difficult to hold between his hands, and he did not wish to dwell on the petty and superstitious nature of this reaction. The card contained no other information, yielded no further clues as to what she could possibly want or what her attitude towards him was. He flicked the card with his finger and considered how she differed from her boyfriend in this respect. Frank had simply barged into his shop (his home, his life), whereas she sent him a politely worded request to visit him at home at a time of his choosing. Did she wish to wrong foot him, or to come to visit him at a place where she knew there would be no-one else to interfere? Or did she perhaps sense the imbalance of power that surprising someone with a visit they were unprepared for entailed? Did she sense that Robert was someone who was too aware of power and its imbalances and how subtly such relations manifested themselves? The question remained unanswered, however, as to what she sought from him. Only one thing came to mind and Robert would experience panic rising within him as he considered the possibility that Frank had said something to her about- about what? What exactly was there to say in relation to that? She could not demand of him if he had had certain thoughts about Frank, could she? He was already staying clear of Mr. Frink and the other man was doing likewise. He must have said something, what he did not know, to Mr. McCarthy because he had not sought to broach the issue with him even though it was plainly written on Edward's face that he wanted to ask why all contact had been broken between the two. If Robert had given one word's indication that he wished to talk to Edward about it, he would have probably responded. But he did not. He could not. He found himself taking a sheet of cream writing paper, and carefully writing to Juliana to please come on the following Thursday after the shop had closed. 

\--------------------------------------------

He spent the following days preparing for this appointment with a woman he scarcely knew, who had arranged it for a purpose he could not guess at. His cleaning mania returned and he whiled away hours late at night unable to sleep by polishing items that had hardly any need of polishing. He bought flowers the day she was due to come over and promptly threw them out. He wished desperately he could smoke before meeting her but could not allow himself this weakness.  
She arrived exactly on time, bearing flowers. Her smile was open, bright, shining out from behind the sheet of hair falling across one side of her face, chin tilted down, eyes up towards him. Unwanted, the intrusive image of her looking at Frank in such a manner in an entirely different context forced itself into his mind- the two of them entwined, so intimately, Frank's face and mouth buried in between her thighs, hers between his. He was so alarmed by his inability to control his thoughts, and by the pain this gorgeous vision aroused in him, that he was incapable of facing her for some moments whilst he took her coat, settled the flowers on table, and served tea.  
Scarcely was he rid of one intrusive image than another one hit him; the last time he had shared tea with a woman like this it had been his mother. Since the day Frank had left his shop after Juliana's return and had not come back, Robert had found himself thinking of his mother on a daily, nightly basis, running over conversations they had had which he could remember, recalling her scent, how she took her tea. He wondered too much what she would think of her grown son and his life. Though his shop was dedicated to the trappings of the past, Robert was increasingly unsettled by the amount of time he spent in a time long gone, and worried what might be passing him by in the present world, ugly as it was. For so long he had sought to keep the present day at arm's length, in a neutral position where it could not damage him too much, and yet he now sought it, and feared he would not be able to catch up to it.  
He focused on Juliana, who sat cradling a tea cup in the palm of her hand, her hand holding it upright at its handle, and she swiveled her head slowly, examining his shop. 

"Your shop is beautiful." 

Robert could not work out if she was being sarcastic or not. Each passing day he was finding it increasingly difficult to recapture the feeling he used to have in relation to his shop, and this ambivalent state of mind was only sharpened by the knowledge that this shop was his life, it was all he had and all he had worked for. 

"Well, perhaps you think so because you spend so much time with the Japanese." 

"You don't like your own shop? Or you don't like the Japanese?" 

Why was he incapable of keeping his mouth shut? "I...I like my shop," he admitted. "though there are some days when I am not so certain as to the value or charm of its contents." 

She smiled at that. "My mom would just love it here, she believes in the superiority of American culture over the Japanese. But then she would just complain about how they're buying it all up with no appreciation for what isn't theirs." 

Ah. Robert could easily picture the type. Interesting such a woman had produced such a daughter. Perhaps that had been Frank's doing- or was it foolish to think of individuals in such terms, that their core being and character could only be traced back to the influence of another? It would be false to say one person was completely formed and determined by their relation to another, but surely people could inspire one another, or be affected by their interactions and exchange of experiences? He somehow sensed this was a question he could discuss with Juliana if he knew her better, but not yet. He found himself liking her already, there was something pleasant about being in her presence. Not pleasant in a vapid way, as if the word was an insult, but pleasant in the sense of simply feeling well in her company. 

"It's been strange being around my mom again, actually, talking to her, attempting to work past the gap in time I was absent for, and why. It's been strange to be back in general. Difficult too." 

"It's hard to leave as well though, isn't it?" 

"Yes, but returning is much harder. If you've left, you can just keep going, you've already broken that tie. But to come back to a place you left, people you left, under good or bad circumstances, and no matter what, everything will have changed. Or you yourself have changed and the place and the people are the same. Things, and people, seem to overlap for only such a brief period of time." Her expression was not sad, not self-deprecating, nor angry as she said this, it was closer to resigned, or perhaps accepting. Wise? That too. "I know I've changed, and that must be hard for my mom to have to deal with. She hasn't changed. There's an odd comfort in that, I somehow find." She sipped her tea. "Frank has changed too, but that was already taking place before I left." 

Robert held himself still, refusing to allow his body to betray him. He tried to ready himself for whatever might be coming. 

"Frank is quite easy to read once you know him, I'm not sure he's aware of it." A smile touched her lips, speaking of fondness for the man. "It's one of the things, many things, I love about him. He is so clear about where he stands, in relation to an issue, or to a person, and he cannot pretend or edit himself too well. I think he believes otherwise though. I can't lie and say it's been easy being with him again, but we're getting there. It probably only has a chance of working because we're both not the same person we were before." She spoke in a low voice, unrushed. "He talks about you so much, I genuinely don't think he notices how much. Anecdotes, or if we see something you'd like, or, well, there's often a lot of references to things you'd hate and how you'd react to them, which Frank finds amusing." 

Robert placed his tea cup on the table for fear he would lose his grip on it or slosh its contents on himself. 

"I tried to bring this up with him one time, who you were and what you had done, who you were to him. He didn't want to discuss it at first, he seemed very hurt, whether by you or at the thought of you, I am not quite sure still. Eventually we were able to talk about it and he explained that you had helped him through some very bad nights, had talked to him about things he felt he could not tell anyone for fear of the consequences, and that you had been there for him. He seemed surprised at this development, because as I understand it, things did not start off on the right foot between you? He didn't say it, because he didn't need to, it was so clear that he misses you. I know Frank, so well, but I do not know you at all, so I had to come here, and talk to you because I need to know what your feelings for Frank are, if-". 

Robert sprang out of his seat, and stood in the middle of the room, wishing he could just run. He sought to get his breathing under control as he was dangerously close to panic.  
"Are you trying to get me arrested, is that what's going on here, hmm?" 

Juliana looked up at him, a worried expression on her face, her fingers touching her lips. She removed them and softly replied, "No. I...Robert, I apologize, of course that seemed like an attack or an accusation. I am going about this all wrong." 

He remained standing, feeling less vulnerable in this position.  
"I am sure I have no idea as to what it is you are attempting, poorly, I might add, to communicate to me." He managed to enunciate with some degree of conviction. She paused a moment before speaking again. 

"A lot happened between my first leaving here, going to the Reich, and coming back. I saw and experienced a great deal I had never conceived of as possible, and I did things I did not know I was capable of. And when I was away, I met someone, who was there with me, while I went through this. We did not act on it, however, we shared a lot, a lot bound us together, and this created intimacy. He held me in his arms after I first killed someone, he took care of me that night, he understood and accepted me, and was there. There was a lot of complications, and disappointments, and it was difficult to make Frank understand what this man meant to me, and how it didn't affect my love for him. I have been confronted with things which defy comprehension, everything I once held certain is anything but, and the Nazis are still in power, and I find myself wondering about love, about how little of it there is in this world, how uncertain our lives are. If anything should happen to me I don't want Frank to be alone, I want to know that there will be someone there for him, who cares about him. I don't know exactly how you feel about each other, what form it would take or how long it would last but if you do feel something for one another, I want you to be able to explore it, to act on it, to own it, like I did and like I didn't manage to." 

Juliana rose and crossed over to Robert, who took a step back. "What are you saying, Ms. Crain?" He asked weakly. 

"I have no idea what I'm saying or doing. All I know is how uncertain the times we're living in are, and that we need to stay together, to care for one another. The Nazis believe that a woman is only valuable if she can produce children. I am incapable of this. Am I worth nothing as a woman then? The Nazis declaim that all those weak in body are useless and serve no purpose. Is Ed worth nothing? The Nazis believe Jewish people to be subhuman, a plague. Is Frank, his sister, his niece, nephew, are they all not human but vermin? The Nazis believe in relations only between one man and one woman within marriage. Could they not be wrong about this too? Are people who feel and desire in other ways worth nothing?" 

She had taken one of Robert's violently shaking hands in both of hers. She tilted her head up and placed her mouth softly against the corner of his, her warmth against him briefly. "Frank trusts you, so I trust you. Do you trust us? Yourself?" 

Robert nodded, incapable of speech, his heart still pounding from fear and confusion. She squeezed his hand once before releasing it. 

"Thank you for tea, Robert. I need to go, and talk to Frank." 

And with that, she was gone. 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

Juliana's visit, and her kiss, though the kiss itself had not been erotic, had such an effect on Robert, it was as if a long shut gate had been opened, and he could not longer hold back the visions of bare flesh and delicious acts which he had fought to keep at bay. He was restless and ravenous, he would lie awake at night running his hands over his own body, giving into the desire to pleasure himself. When he did succumb to sleep he was plagued by vivid, sensuous dreams which remained with him long after he awoke. Focusing on work had become nigh on impossible. He had no idea as to how Mr. McCarthy currently perceived him. He did not know where he stood with Frank or with Juliana, he had not heard from them the past week since she had visited. He did not know what to expect or how to prepare himself for what might come.  
The renewal of contact took the form of a phone call. Robert answered as he stood in the shop, and was utterly unprepared for Frank's voice on the other end and the effect which hearing his voice had on him. 

"Robert, I want to apologise for how I acted the last time we saw one another."

"There is nothing to apologise for." He murmured, even though there was no one else currently present in the shop who could have overheard him. 

"No, I do need to, I- there's been a misunderstanding, and I've talked a lot to Juliana and- listen, this is too difficult to do over the phone. I have some good Saki, can I just bring that over, we could talk?" 

"Come over for dinner, I'll cook." Robert found himself saying. 

"I'd really like that." 

After they agreed on the following day for dinner Robert stood for a while, one hand pressed against the counter in front of him, the palm of his other hand flat against his stomach, trying to ground himself, to still the faint dizzying sensation spreading through him. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He did enjoy cooking, particularly for others, though he did not receive too many opportunities to do so. He was, he could easily admit, sufficiently talented in this area. He did not attribute it to any creative ability or flair on his part, but rather to his precision. He enjoyed seeking out the ingredients required, and carefully preparing them, neatly chopping, shredding, peeling, grinding as required, and following the recipe step by step, experiencing satisfaction as he cleaned up the kitchen after himself and the aroma of the dishes became present. 

He found himself taking particular care as he dressed that evening, discarding shirt after shirt, tie after tie, becoming irritated with himself and his actions, imagining how Frank was going to show up in the same old things he always wore while he would have got himself tarted up for- for what? What was this? Dinner? He felt so laughable. He had very little left to do but wait for Mr. Frink to arrive and fiddle with his cuffs, fussing over whether the length was wrong. A fear gripped him that Frank was not going to show up, and this fear would not let go of him, and even when Frank appeared in his doorway, bearing the promised bottle of Saki, he did not believe it. Frank looked good, he looked clean and neat and as if he had prepared for dinner tonight (or as if Juliana had helped him to get ready for this evening). Robert had no concept of how to be or act or feel, knowing that Frank knew about his meeting with his girlfriend, and knew that he knew, and everything was suddenly so exposed and yet so hushed, so fragile. Robert did not know how to navigate this. Thankfully, Frank seemed to have a better idea of how to handle this, and gave him a gentle smile, saying "It smells great." Robert experienced the unsettling and yet simultaneously thrilling sensation of apprehension and anticipation. He closed the door behind the other man, and busied himself with the food, needing some distance from directly looking at Frank or his eyes, and to not be too close to him. 

"Can I help out in any way? I'd like to make myself useful." 

Robert found himself thinking of how Frank had been eager to to perform any small act for Juliana, and he distractedly asked him to set the table. When he came back bearing the steaming bowls, he saw that Frank, rather than seating them directly across from one another, had instead seated Robert at the head of the table and himself to his left, a 90 degree angle. 

Frank was behaving as if this entire evening was perfectly normal, and Robert was slowly able to relax a small bit, to let go partially of the dark thoughts that this was a trap or a prank, or some kind of pretext for blackmail. It wasn't that he thought badly of Frank, he knew him better than that, it was rather this world he had grown up in and worked in that left him so suspicious. Frank talked, not as Edward would, in a great rush of earnestness, but rather he talked easily, at a measured pace, with breaks in between to enjoy his meal. Robert had to admit there was something nice about watching him eat what he had prepared. He had scarcely any appetite himself so at least someone was getting the benefit from it. It must appear terrible advertisement for his own cooking, his nearly untouched portion. He moved his chopsticks through the contents of his bowl and listened to Frank talking about his latest sketches, or something Edward had said, or something that had struck him he had seen as he walked down the street. Robert struggled to respond beyond affirmative or interested noises and felt a small anxiety building in him again. He wasn't sure exactly what he had to offer Frank if he wasn't capable of talking in his usual assured and quick manner. Frank, however, didn't seem to mind, he didn't prod him, or put questions to him, simply kept up a light stream of anecdotes and stories. Robert wondered if he was glimpsing the Frank who had visited Edward and Juliana in hospital, and he didn't know whether he should be flattered or proud that this was being granted to him. 

When the meal was finished, Robert's uncertainty returned in a stark wave now that he was not sure what they would do, the pretext and distraction of the meal removed. Robert cleared the table and focused on the washing-up, not caring if he was being a rude host in turning his back on his guest. Want coursed through his veins, its cries muffled by his own sheer self-will, but still so very present. When he was done cleaning up and could no longer put it off, he turned back towards the table, wondering whether he should pour some Saki for them even though he did not normally partake himself. Frank stood up and crossed the floor soundlessly towards him and stood in front of him, too, too close. Robert backed up against the counter, and Frank simply followed. The apartment was still, broken only by the harsh sound of Robert's out of control breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he failed completely to bring it under control. He could not but stare at Frank, he was so close, and his smell surrounded him, a clean scent mixed with hair oil and paints. Frank leaned in, closing the final gap between them, and kissed his mouth softly, briefly before pulling back slightly, his breath skittering across Robert's face and neck. Robert wanted to run, he wanted to weep, but mostly he wanted more of what he had barely tasted. Frank must have seen this for he kissed him again, long, languidly, liquidly. Robert knew that later there would have to be questions and answers, discussions and explanations, but now, now, this was all that mattered, and so he gave himself over entirely to Frank.


	7. Chapter 7

Even the thrill of the illicit, the taste and feel of the long-yearned for, and the apparent reciprocation of what he could scarcely dare to articulate, even this could not prevent Robert's mind from running away, leaving the moment, changing perspective and turning him into an outsider in an embrace which he was very much a part of. How laughable he must appear, how pathetic, how undignified, slobbering and grateful for this; what a cruel contrast his figure must present to the wonderful specimen currently entwined around him. Robert had never considered himself unattractive, he knew he possessed a certain charm and style, in which he took a good degree of pride. A niggling unease in his chest wanted to tell him it was not just Frank Frink's handsomeness which made him so insecure, but rather more some part of his own character; and that his even greater fear was that Frank was now too close, he was too close for Robert to be able to continue hiding what he lacked on the inside, his great flaw being this inhuman lack. He had experienced Frank's anger many times, it had been often directed at him, and he could handle that; he could not entertain the thought of Frank being disgusted by him, at the realization of who he was, how very lacking, he could not bear the idea of Frank regretting this, what they were doing now, and the friendship they had built up, and believing Robert had intentionally misled him.

Though Robert may have swiftly become a spectator in this embrace, Frank had not, and slowed down his insistent movements, granting a little space between them without breaking contact. Frank looked at him closely, and Robert wanted to flinch from that gaze. 

"This is probably a bit much to deal with at once." Frank said softly. "How about we get some cigarettes and uhm, go into the bedroom together? Nothing has to happen, we can just smoke and...enjoy." 

Oh yes, a cigarette would be absolutely ideal right now.

Robert showed Frank to the bedroom, and Frank sat down on the bed immediately, removing his shoes. Robert lit a cigarette for himself, and then for Frank. How could this, which felt so horribly indecent to Robert, seem to leave Frank so unbothered? They were together, in his bedroom, about to lie down beside one another...Frank stretched out on the bed, waiting for Robert to join him, smiling; and that smile could have brought together all the disparate lines of Robert's life but it failed to, catching on tangled and broken threads. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette, hoping it would take effect soon and help him at least drown out this panicked feeling in his chest. This wasn't how it should be, Robert thought repeatedly as he slowly lowered himself down beside Frank. Not in the sense of what the regime had instilled into him throughout his life, he knew that for them this was absolutely not how it was meant to be. Robert had something else in mind, he meant there was some ideal, some idiotic notion picked up from movies and trashy novels of how such an encounter should be. Perhaps he was the one at fault, unable to respond as others would in what was a perfectly pedestrian sexual exchange. The effects of the cigarette began to spread out through him and though he still had the same worries struggling within him, he found he cared less. They remained but he detached from them. Escape. That was why it felt so odd to him, so far from any ideal or daydream. This was an escape, brief and pleasant, from the reality of their situation. For what else could it be? What could Frank expect of him, expect him to do in the name of this? Perhaps for Frank it was less an escape from their lived experience and more a good way for him to release pressure and stress. Did he really have such a low opinion of Frank? No. No, he certainly did not; yet, to entertain what his feelings meant, or what Frank's were, it was far too much to process, if they could not be reduced down to something as neat as the purely physical or self-serving. 

Frank had seemed to realize that conversation was not particularly desired at this moment, and so had contentedly been smoking beside him, glancing over regularly, letting his gaze move across Robert's face and body. Robert took the last drag on his cigarette, and carefully disposed of it in an ashtray beside the bed. He didn't quite flinch when Frank reached over to brush his fingertips across his arm but he wasn't far off from it either. This was followed by a small kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth, and though the uneasy sensation remained settled in his chest, it was now joined by a warmth which he couldn't attribute simply to what he had been smoking. Frank took one of Robert's hands in his, and directed it to touch him, placing it on his thigh. 

"Robert," he said lowly. "I am not one of your shop items. You can very much touch me. I won't break."

And he squeezed Robert's hand, pressing it down, causing it to grasp and dig into the flesh of Frank's upper leg. The sheer thereness and solidness but also softness of Frank's thigh in his grip sent his senses reeling, the warmth spread from his chest to between his legs. A small noise escaped his mouth, which he would never admit to, and Frank's satisfied smile at this betrayal of his own reaction infuriated him, but also sent further delicious sensations through him. He had not released his hold of Frank, but was palping the thigh muscle instead, and he felt his own skin desperate for similar treatment. He wished he knew how to communicate this in words without sounding whiny or inelegant, but the words were not there, so for once he resorted to gestures, body language. He turned on his side, towards Frank, pulling them closer together, waiting so badly to feel the heat and solidness of Frank's body on his. Frank moved again, and suddenly Robert had the other man on top of him, lying against him, and he had never imagined the erotic power of experiencing your lover's entire weight pressing down on you, surrounding you. Robert sought Frank's mouth, angling up, his kisses lacking any sense of rhythm or style as their erections rubbed together, driving Robert to the edge of his reason. Frank sat up, straddling him, as he removed his shirt, Robert beneath him, all too happy to watch this display. He hurriedly undid his own shirt buttons and Frank helped him to shuck off the unwanted piece of clothing. (A small part of him wanted to gather and hang the shirt up, or at least put it across the back of a chair but he could only imagine Frank's reaction to this request.) Frank's hands roamed over his bare chest and Robert found himself gripped by the desire to look and suck upon every inch of exposed flesh available to him, shoulder, upper arm, torso, nipple, wrist, and imagined going even lower. 

Frank appeared quite eager to assist him in this as he swiftly tugged off his trousers, taking his underwear with them. Robert had been on the verge of undoing his own belt when he saw Frank standing at the edge of the bed, naked, his body sculpted and glorious to look upon. His cock was hard, not too long, but thick, curving upwards from the dark hair between his legs. Frank sat down beside him on the bed, his hands poised on Robert's belt, looking to him for either confirmation or a request to cease. Robert nodded, then worried it wasn't enough, nodded several times more vigorously and managed to enunciate a "yes". Frank undid his belt, then slid his trousers and underwear down and off, allowing those to fall into a crumpled heap on the floor as well, but by now, Robert (almost) didn't care. Frank was stroking his hands idly upper Robert's inner thighs, something Robert had never thought would create such sensations inside him, before he lightly took his cock in hand, slimmer but certainly longer than Frank's, and began moving his thumb over the already leaking tip, before giving him a few experimental strokes. Robert knew he would not last any decent amount of time but this appeared to be exactly Frank's intention. He found a grip and rhythm that elicited what he judged was the best reaction from Robert, and maintained this movement and hold whilst allowing his free hand to slip between Robert's legs, playing with his balls, and running his fingers between his cheeks, lingering there. Robert could not control what was happening inside him, and with a small cry he came, spurting over Frank's hand and onto his own stomach. Frank leaned down to kiss him and Robert experienced such a strange mixture of shame and deep arousal at this gesture, and at the state he was left in, come dripping off of him and soiling the sheets. Regaining control of his breath, Robert managed to ask: "Any chance you could get me a towel or something, please?" 

Frank smirked at him again, and Robert was infuriated once more by the other man's self-assuredness and the absurd position he felt himself to be in, incapacitated for fear of further staining the sheets. Frank returned but instead of handing the towel to Robert, he gently wiped him off himself, drying him, before cleaning his own hands. 

"There." Frank looked very pleased with himself, and there was something else in his look, but Robert did not want to dwell on it too much. 

He felt great uncertainty taking control of him, now that the act, as such, was done. It hadn't been what he had imagined it would be, in the sense that his orgasm had not necessarily been the high point of the event, it was almost an afterthought; for him, the real experience had been in exploring Frank's body and being caressed in return, to have him lying next to him now. He cleared his throat, and haltingly began, attempting to sound casual. 

"Uh, would you not like me to return the favour or...?" 

He was too aware of the inequality of this state of affairs though he was also nervous about having to make his hands (or something else, who knew) be skilled enough to bring Frank to orgasm. Frank appeared to be dozing, his eyes half-closed.

"Oh, we have plenty of time for that, don't worry about it now, alright?" 

Robert lad down tentatively beside him, wondering whether Frank meant that they had a lot of time tonight or time in some vaguely defined future period.

"Robert, I can practically hear you thinking from over here. Stop." 

Robert attempted to scoff, but he knew that Frank didn't buy it. He turned towards him and pulled Robert to him, wrapping his arms around him, reversing the position they had found themselves in some weeks ago. It was nearly frightening to be held in another's arms in such a manner. It took Robert a long time to fall asleep.

 

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When they awoke in the morning, Robert was somewhat surprised to find Frank still there, and not only that, but their position had not changed too greatly during the night, and they still held one another close. Frank stirred from sleep not long after this and greeted Robert with a soft kiss before stating simply: "No dreams last night" and proceeded to kiss him again, and Robert was taken aback by this affectionate side to him, almost cat-like, nuzzling into him. Far too aware of the stale scent of his body and his breath, he mumbled to Frank something about freshening up and retreated to the bathroom. He cleaned himself up as best he could, wincing at the reflection he was confronted with, and hoped these quick ablutions would somehow help him in this strange morning after, made all the more strange as he was apparently the only one struggling with it. He returned to the bedroom, and Frank was still there, waiting for him. He wished he could explain his unease with this, at least to himself. In spite of this, a part of him whispered insistently that he needed to enjoy this, for it might be his only chance to experience this, no matter what it meant or didn't. And so he found himself in Franks arms again, his bathrobe being discarded by Frank, but this time Frank took more direct control than last night, with added murmurs of "Is this alright? Are you sure?" as he moved Robert into the position he desired, and Robert's heart was hammering in his chest, his breath barely under control, longing and arousal flooding through him again as he felt Frank's body pressing down on him. 

"Robert, this is going to be a very personal question, but have you done this before?" 

Robert was glad his face was partially covered, as he lay on his front, as he knew he was flushing as he managed to confirm to Frank that no, he had not done this before. Frank paused, tracing lines of comfort and assurance down his back, whilst Robert wondered how Frank had managed to indulge himself and explore this whilst he had been too afraid, always, to even look. Had he always been afraid? Had there even been a time when he had not been filled with fear, a time when it had not been a constant companion? If he had been, it would only have been in some period when his mother was still with him. If there ever had been such a time, he had no memory of it.

It was not necessarily the sensation of having Frank's cock deep inside him, moving slowly, which brought his feelings to such an uncontrollable crescendo, but rather feeling how close they were, how they could not be physically any closer than they were at this moment, and as he felt Frank's juddering and stuttering movements as he came, pressing down even harder on him, making deep noises of release, primal, Robert found himself once again glad of being able to hide his face somewhat as he failed to restrain the tears which ran down his face. Frank either couldn't see them or failed to tell the difference between them and sweat, or perhaps, he did notice them, but also knew enough to not draw attention to this. Robert could not articulate exactly what elicited this emotional reaction from him, and he was mortified, but on some level, he recognized it was a kind of mourning, or feeling sorry for a younger version of himself, perhaps even feeling sorry for who he had become. 

Frank had not moved, and remained sprawled on top of Robert, his lips pressed into the crook of his shoulder, turning slowly every so often to kiss the back of his neck. Robert was a mixture of unpleasantly hot from their bodies sticking together, and unpleasantly clammy from the cooling sweat and come on the exposed areas of his skin. He briefly allowed himself to imagine bathing with Frank, in the Japanese style, a shower first to remove the surface dirt before sharing a bath, to soak in. There was no time for it, there was no space for it; Robert had to attend to the shop and he assumed Frank would have to return home, to the apartment he shared with Juliana, the life he shared with her. Perhaps there was a small space for him in Frank's life, but that was all it ever could be. He couldn't imagine how anything else could work, he couldn't believe in Frank and Juliana making a bigger space for him, no matter what she had said to him yesterday. Shame curled in his stomach, the sense of being marked for life came back to him, the niggling knowledge that had followed him from childhood into his adult years. At least this way, they could never work out how lacking he was as a person, they would never know about the things he had done, or rather the things he had failed to do. He had never particularly cared before, or so he told himself, if others thought him to be self-serving, or even cowardly - in this life you had to look out for yourself, because no-one else would. But now he seemed to be keeping company with people who operated by a different code, and he could only imagine how repelled Frank and Edward and Juliana would be by him, who had not even defended his own mother.

Knowing that maintaining some degree of distance was the one measure he had to take in order to keep together any semblance of the life he had lived up until this point, he managed to rise swiftly from the bed, leaving Frank lying there, a surprised look on his face, stating that he needed to get ready for work and that he probably shouldn't hang around too long, he went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Only as he began to let the water run, did he regret this, and found himself scrabbling to unlock the door, and was greeted by an empty room and an already cooling bed. It took him a moment to notice the piece of paper on the bedside table, folded in two. He picked it up, and read: "We never did get to talk. Come over when you want to, and feel ready to. Take your time."


	8. Chapter 8

Robert moved briskly through the busy streets, adopting his usual gait and manner; he did not allow his eyes to drift left or right but maintained his gaze straight ahead. He kept his pace even and at a fair clip, not hurrying however, he could not appear as if he was scurrying, rather he should leave the impression that he had important business somewhere. Even when not on a business-related errand, Robert dressed as if this were the case, hat, coat, and briefcase or leather bag adding further to the guise he felt it was necessary to take on. He imagined the police on every corner, under cover behind each street vendor. He could not even say when he had learnt to behave like this as soon as he left his own rooms; he often wondered if this was how will animals felt when they found themselves forced to cross out in the open, to traverse some area with no undergrowth to cover their movements. He shouldn't be behaving like some wild scurrying animal though, he was a man, and should be spare such ignominious experiences. If anyone knew where he was going and the reason for his visit! Although he himself could not exactly express the purpose of going to Frank's apartment either. They had to meet again, talk, sometime, it was inevitable. Robert just did not know what to prepare himself for or how Frank would receive him after their night together and Robert's abrupt absence from the bedroom.

He waited, ascertaining that he was indeed alone before he approached Frank's building and slipped inside. He was taken aback when Juliana opened the door to him; in contrast, she smiled broadly and welcomed him in.

"Frank isn't in just now, but he should be back soon enough." 

If he hadn't known already that it wasn't the case, Robert would have suspected Julian of having done this before, her manner with him was so easy and open, un-self conscious. And by it, he meant how he and Frank had slept together with Juliana's very explicit blessing, encouragement even. 

"We weren't sure when to expect you."

She moved smoothly around the apartment, in quiet, graceful turns sh went between the kitchen and the living area, offering Robert tea, and when he accepted, she set the table accordingly. It was a pleasure for Robert to watch how she arranged the cups, how she kept her eyes downcast, focused on the teapot, one slim, long-fingered hand holding the lid in place, showing the lovely arc of her wrist and arm, slanted. She handed him his teacup and Robert was shy in that moment, faced with such a figure. 

He had of course noticed her use of 'we'. She couldn't know how Robert took this one word; he could admit to himself that it was his problem, and Juliana certainly had not meant anything possessive or unpleasant by it. It was shorthand for the conditions of the situation; Juliana and Frank were a 'we', and had been so for a long time before this, and after a confused break, were once again a 'we'. Robert did not know if there was room for him to be encompassed by such a small word. He could not begin to conceptualize how it would work even if he allowed himself the illusion that perhaps it did include him somehow. Did she pity him, he wondered? No. She didn't, he knew that. He needed to rein himself in and not project what he thought of himself onto how he imagined others perceived him. Attempting to observe himself as an outsider he did indeed cut a pitiable figure. 

Juliana blew lightly on her tea, sipped, her eyes regarding him with what appeared to be real warmth. How had Juliana maintained such an open nature in this world? Robert could not envision himself ever being this receptive to a mere acquaintance. She had rather seemed to decide based only on a little that she liked him. 

"Frank was so happy since he went to see you other night. Not that he was miserable before, that period is thankfully over, I think, but he seems happier. I should say instead, an extra bit of happiness. I am so glad he has a bit of extra happiness after all the pain he has had recently." 

Robert was well aware he could not remain a silent conversation partner for much longer and yet it was so beyond his boundaries to receive such intimate admissions, and such a tone meant his responses would also have to be on this level. The thought of hearing such words out loud from himself made him curl up on the inside. He would try and focus on Juliana and not imagine himself as an observer witnessing what he himself was saying. 

"I have only had some small insight," he began falteringly, "into the effects of what Frank has suffered. If I have been of an help to him then that is a great relief to me." 

"I don't feel I should ask you if he has made you happier?" 

"I...don't know. I can't help but always be somewhat suspicious of happiness and experiencing it in this world. I fear the attention it can attract. People are at their most careless when they are happy."

"You talk the same way Frank used to." 

"Used to, before what? Before revolution bit him?" He could not repress the arch response but Juliana took it easily. 

"Perhaps." She replaced her teacup in its saucer on the table. She was clearly gathering herself to say what she had wanted to say since Robert had arrived. "This is, to say the least, an unusual situation." This time, the 'we' unavoidably included Robert. "and I'm sure we will work it out, as we go along, somehow. But one thing I said to you has been bothering me. Well, not one thing, but what my encouragement to you may have implied..." She came to a stop before attempting to once more express what she wished to communicate, fearing that all which was needed was a word in the wrong place or a false intonation to her sentences and a great misunderstanding would result. "I've been worried that when I was talking about you and Frank, and explaining how much I and Frank love each other, that it may have ended up sounding dismissive, as if I did not need to be concerned at all about 'allowing' you and Frank your being together because you were insignificant, not a 'threat' to us at all, as if we were even under 'threat'. I hope it didn't sound that way and I hope it didn't hurt you. I'm just making all this worse and I could've just said nothing. But I guess we have to begin talking about this situation one way or another and it is as good a starting point as any." She re-tucked some of her stray tresses behind her ear and continued: "Maybe you are a threat Robert, in the sense that there is no reason why Frank could not decide to end it with me and be with you, or that it all ends between all three of us, or who knows what other permutation. I've seen things in this world, and not in this world, which have proven to me that love is a fragile creation of chance. In another world we love different partners. This isn't to denigrate or dismiss the loves we experience, to say they're all relative and interchangeable. I mean the opposite. I mean, that this makes our connections even more to be cherished by the sheer happy chance of their happening at all. So, knowing from Frank how important you've become to him, and that he trusted me in telling me this, and since I love Frank, I cannot really allow this to pass by. The thing is, I know what Frank wants but of course, I've known him a lot longer and a lot more intimately than I currently know you. I am also aware it's a huge ask to request that we discuss such painfully intimate matters when it does not match the level of our current acquaintance. But, as I said, I know what Frank wants. I don't know what you want, Robert." 

Not many people had ever asked Robert what he wanted. Life had rarely been concerned with what he, or others, 'wanted'. However, Juliana had posed the question and he found himself wishing to match her quiet directness, to meet her honest words equally, although a great part of him still shrank from such pronouncements. 

"I have found, over the years, that what one wants, changes, and this is true for me too. When I was young I simply wanted to survive. When I was a little older but still quite young, this was no longer enough. To survive only was to be denied something, to be excluded, and so I began to want everything, wealth, beautiful things, a good position in society, influence, power, the ability to charm. These desires grew from my will to survive, or rather as a reaction against what I saw as this mean little survival instinct. I wasn't sure of many things, but something in me demanded more than mere survival, maintained that I deserved something better. And I did gain some semblance of these things, but I learned how conditional they were, how meaningless. Once that happened, what was the point? It was as if I was a child, who insisted on still talking to their toys even when they know they wouldn't and couldn't talk back to them. I suppose this would have coincided with the time Mr. Frink appeared in my life." He hesitated to use Frank's first name in front of Juliana and he still refused to say he 'got to know' Frank, for no matter how the situation currently lay, he would still insist that Frank had imposed himself on his life. "Frank appeared in my life at a time when I was looking for something new. Or rather, I was looking for someone. Not necessarily in the sense of looking for the 'one', but for someone; I imagined there had to be someone out there who could help me see what it was I actually wanted from life." 

For that was how he now understood his infatuations with others, and his infrequent encounters with prostitutes. Mrs. Kasoura had seemed to him what he wanted, or what he was supposed to want in life; if he could have her, or be part of her world, and Paul's, then that would confirm something about his own position and status. If he could mould the prostitutes to a faint echo of this, and have them reflect back to him what he wished to see in himself, then it would be enough. But they were illusions, compensations, props to somehow keep his world view together even when it was coming apart at the seams. And then Frank had come along, had torn everything apart that he had thought was, or had been taught to hold as, certain - and yet, he now preferred these uncertainties to what he had sought before. He thought how to express this to Juliana. 

"Frank, and in turn Edward, and now you as well, Ms. Crain, have become a part of my life. I have never really had this before." He was prevented from having to give voice to the words, "I was so lonely before that", by the sound of the apartment door opening, and Frank's appearance in the living room. 

And in spite of what Juliana had said to him, Robert quietly held on to his conviction that his role in this relationship would not last. Perhaps, he would play a significant part, but not a lasting one, he would help the other two on their way to wherever their partnership brought them next. Yet, even such a role, he would take, he would gladly, gladly take it. He turned to look at Frank, not knowing exactly how he was to behave in this moment; however, Frank took the decision out of his hands by smiling lightly, walking towards him, and bending down, kissed him on the mouth, brief, but soft. He desperately wished he did not have to meet either Frank or Juliana's eyes, but he forced himself to, and was further confused to find only warmth evident in her features, and on Frank's, a certain relief mixed in the smile which continued to touch the edges of his lips. Had Frank thought he would not return? Had this thought actually caused some kind of distress or regret to him? He did not know where to place himself in this moment, so he remained sitting, and watched as Frank then went to Juliana and mirroring his actions moments before, bent down to kiss her; Robert could not help but watch the moment, and wonder if what he felt at seeing these two embrace was how Juliana had felt watching him and Frank.  
Frank sat down at the table, and Juliana went to find another cup for him, even whilst he was protesting that he only wanted coffee, not tea, to which she responded he'd have to make it himself. Whilst he was in the kitchen, Robert and Juliana remained at the table, silent in a companionable manner. He felt a light pressure on his arm, and found Juliana was resting her fingertips against his wrist. Perhaps, she was right. Perhaps they could somehow make this work. For a time, at least.


End file.
